


Those Left Behind

by HerGambitandSwanSong



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex makes mistakes, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Btw I love Eliza, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost John Laurens, Ghosts, I update the tags progressively, Implied Death, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Unrequited Love, mental health, not entirely accurate to the musical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-19 17:29:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13128351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerGambitandSwanSong/pseuds/HerGambitandSwanSong
Summary: Life was looking up to American people, free from the King's reign and finally independent. Alexander Hamilton especially, celebrating by doing only what he does best: writing. But death doesn't discriminate, even for the ones with the purest of intentions, and soon strange occurrences begin to surround Hamilton, only seen by him.Then a letter arrives, and Hamilton is left wondering whether it his closest friend or insanity that haunts him.But who really is left behind in the wake of war; the dead, or the living?





	1. The Ones that Celebrate are the Ones that Lived

**Author's Note:**

> AKA. Part 2 of my procrastination of uni exams. (Also totally OOC and flawed)  
> I have no beta so don't judge my incompetence to realize mistakes or errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Humanity has won its battle. Liberty now has a country.” -Marquis de Lafayette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like I did this bc I keep on seeing fics about Ghost!John and Philip, but none of the quality shit that is Ghost!John and Ham. Don't get me wrong, I love those fics, but I'm dead inside and love to see Ham suffer.

He's walking down the street, heading home for the day with the thought of ink and paper streaming through his mind. The victory of Yorktown and the war still fresh as though he could just smell the lingering scent of gunpowder and smoke that encapsulated the battlefield. His son, his pride and joy could live in a land not governed by foreign forces, but the men that stood in front of him.

  
It wasn't noticeable, as he walked through the crowd the lingering spell of gunpowder growing more intense and prominent. The company around didn’t seem to be troubled by the smell, walking past Alex, likely caught up in their own problems.

If anything, it seemed only to be apart of Alexander’s wild imagination.

  
Looking down to check his coat of any lingering evidence or blemishes that may have been the result, his attention snapped to the stony surface at his feet. Droplets of blood, ranging in sizes from minuscule to alarmingly large stained the hard surface in a trail that led ahead.  
To his utter confusion, people walked on by with no recognition or worry for what the blood may entail. It seemed to Alexander, that he was the only person who saw it.

  
Following the trail that winded through streets never sending, he stopped in front of the beginning of an alley way. The blood ceased to exist, stopping short a few inches from where he stood. Light was limited now as the sun was almost fully set and blocked by the buildings, however he could he hear the faint cry of someone in the dark alley. Alexander, not daring to walk into it, stayed frozen where he was, listening only to the quick, anguished breathing of a panicked individual.  
Possibly a beggar, which partially excused as to why others were not concerned with the blood and walked over it like it had never existed. In a land so adamant on freedom and independence, they were quick to leave behind those that required some assistance and couldn’t be fully independent yet.

  
But the voice sounded young, not as youthful as a child, but of young man. The mumbling was swift, words of disbelief taken over at the end of each broken sentence with a heavy breathe.

   
"Hello?" Alexander called out, voicing echoing against the walls sharp and clear. "Are you in need for assistance?"

  
The panic of the young man stopped, however just before an airy, terrified, whisper of, "Alexan-" cut off abruptly.

  
Alexander's eyes widened, taking a step forward only to notice the blood droplets gone, wiped away as though a storm had washed away all evidence of it ever staining those stone roads.

He was hallucinating, that's what it ought to have been. A trick of the senses due to his poor health choices and pushing his sleep deprived body to the extreme.

  
For once in his life he desired to sleep.

 

* * *

 

  
While sleep was a necessity, it appeared his body had adapted to his unhealthy tendencies. Despite his yearn to sleep, wilfully shutting his eyes in hopes of it, never came.

He couldn't sleep, a presence was poking at the back of his mind making the task impossible.

   
The room was dark and the hushed breathing of his sleeping wife at his side was the only indicator of life. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well read.

Lighting a candle, the wick was almost gone, he settled his head against the bed frame and read quietly.  
Some time went by and Alexander was emerged into his book. The temperature seemed to drop around and he tucked himself a little closer to Eliza. It was then he noticed the rising and falling of her chest did not match the breathing he was hearing. Her chest rose slowly and fell in unison, however the breathing -loud and shaky- that he could hear did not match with her sleeping.

  
From his peripheral view, he could barely make out a slumped, dark form against a wall. A stain, darker then the form in front of it, looked like had been smeared down to flooring.

Heart rising and falling as adrenaline pumped through his veins, he took the candle, raising it towards the figure. The flame was dimming to his misfortune, such an inconvenient time and place for the wick to slowly die. He cursed under his breath, twisting out of his prone form and planting his feet on the cold ground. Alexander slowly got up, squinting to make out more details of the figure.  
He peered closer, ready to strike whatever came at him. An oddly familiar navy coat was the first thing he could properly see. It sent a chill up his spine, the hand gripping the candle becoming progressively shaky as he investigated more.  
The next thing he noticed was the two hands clutching the side of the figures torso. It was an awkward position to be sitting at. As if the figure had been slammed against the floor by a sudden force and slumped over in exhaustion.

  
"I've been shot?" The figure mumbled in disbelief, hands covered in blood, eyes glued to the mess at his side.  
Alexander's breath hitched, his eyes widened like saucers. Not because of the stranger in his room, or the blood stains, but because of the weak, southern voice that came from the dark figure that he had heard many sweet times before.  
It was then that he looked at the figure's face. The face that was to caught up in their own bodily damage and shock to notice the presence of Alexander and the horror on his face.

  
"Alexander," A confused voice behind him spoke up. He whirled around in surprise, only relaxing at the knowledge that it was only just his wife. She looked at him funny, head tilted and blinking sleepily. "What are you doing up? You must sleep, please." She quietly urged, curling back up to sleep.

  
The temperature went back to normal, and Alexander looked back at the figure to see if it was who it seemed; not just some trick of the eye. But at second glance, all evidence: the blood stains and dark figure were gone. An occurrence similar to that of earlier in the day in the alley.

  
It was solely just a hallucination, he tried to tell himself. What he said, false and a trick of the eye. It was gone and he was going to force himself to sleep, whether his body wanted to or not. If he kept telling himself it was nothing, then he could convince himself. But as the man that couldn't be swayed by anyone, even for himself, that was quite impossible.

He would confide in Lafayette in the morning.

  
It seemed the adrenaline had helped exhaust himself, because falling asleep was a much easier and welcomed task now.

  
Falling asleep he dreamed of John Laurens, in all his godlike determination and passion; a solider who couldn't possibly be dead.  
  



	2. The Denial That Protect Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think the greatest illusion we have is that denial protects us. It's actually the biggest distortion and lie. In fact, staying asleep is what's killing us."- Eve Ensler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the frick do u write a 18th C. french dude in love with America? Also I write this slightly tipsy so ignore the many errors yay

  
The next day, before the sun had even appeared in the horizon, Alexander was out of bed, fully dressed and making his way across town, to the place Lafayette was staying for the brief time before his departure back to France. He'd confide in his friend and realize that it was all fake, not a single moment real.

  
Once there, he went to his friend's door and knocking rather improperly and roughly, woke the entire building. Too consumed and frankly shaken to care for how loud and rapid his knocking was, he continued until footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door. It took a couple of moments before the door was opened and his friend stood in front of him.

  
"Alexander?" He mumbled in question. His voice was groggily, French accent thick with sleep. It was obvious he had woken his French friend up. "What are doing here? Does Eliza know where you are?"

  
"No," Alex answered, hands fidgeting and eyes skipping all around. "And she doesn't need to know."

  
"You don't look well, have you fallen ill?"

  
He wanted to skip the questions, getting more impatient by the second. "May I confide in you inside?"

 Not bothering to answer his friend's question. Lafayette moved to the left, opening the door way in welcome, "Oui, of course, come in."

  
They sat down at a dinning table, Lafayette’s hands clasped together and resting on the table. He observes Alexander closely, eyes starting at his lips and working his way up to his friend's face.  
Alexander for the first time ever does not know what to say. He sits fumbling like a fool.

  
"I may be running into problems with my health." He manages to confess. Lafayette raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.

  
"What sort of problems?"

  
"Delusions, hallucinations, a lingering smell of gunpowder that is nowhere near."

He debated briefly whether to also include their friend- bleeding out on the floor as a symptom.

  
"Have you slept all that often?"

  
"No, I've been too occupied." It's evident. He looks ragged, hair unkempt, dark circles under his eyes contrasting against the paleness of his skin. Even the most uneducated of people would know that his priority wasn’t on his health, but his work.

  
Layette acknowledges all this, "That may be why then."

  
Right then, the temperature falls from the room and the hairs on Alexander's arms rise. His eyes widen and start to skip around the table surface. Lafayette doesn't seem to notice the temperature drop or his friend's sudden tenseness, instead digging deeper into his American friend’s troubles.

  
"What are the hallucinations?"

  
"Of a dark figure," Alexander mumbles almost inaudible. It's laced in distraction, looking around rather then focusing on Lafayette. Scanning his surroundings, he doesn’t spot the hallucination of his friend yet. Nevertheless, Alexander is sure that the figure will make an appearance, if the chilling of the room and the hairs on his arms rising meant anything.

  
"Sleep has never been your forte my friend, so I do believe that may be the cause." Lafayette explains warmly. He watches his friend's face pale, eyes seemed too caught up with something over Lafayette's shoulder to focus on himself. It's troubling and Lafayette reaches to grasp his friend's wrist.

  
"You can confide in me for anything, Alexander. Even across the ocean fighting another war I will save the time to send you letters...."  
His speech of reassurance is heartwarming and continues. However, those are the only words Alex seems to catch before his eyes and ears notice a familiar figure against the wall facing him.

While the hallucination does not make eye contact with him or notice Alexander's attention, much to his relief, it claws at the bloody wound that has taken up a significant amount of its side.

Terrified eyes stare at the wound in disbelief, and after an abrupt silence, a loud, deafening wail escapes the figure’s lips.

Screams laced in trepidation and an animistic wildness ring in Alex’s ears. He only just manages to not instinctively cover his ears, when the shrieks loud-en. His heart drops at the sound of his dearest friend in a tremendous amount of pain and it echoes in his brain on repeat. The pains and sights of war didn’t come close to this torture. At that moment, Alex realizes he won’t be able to bear it.

  
Sobs, loud cries and the wailing continue for some time. Lafayette’s speech flashes by, now taken up by watching his friend, who looked to be in a state of shock stare at the wall behind him.   
"Alexander?" Lafayette asks lightly. “Mon ami, are you alright?"

  
Something snaps inside Alex, his eyes drowning in an endless sea of pain, that has Lafayette rising to his feet before Alex can.

  
"I must go now," Alexander stumbles, mind scattered and frazzled. Getting up from his seat, Alex heads straight to the door. The sobs are loud and tormenting, it's something he cannot handle, not from the face and voice of his best friend.

  
"Mon ami, wait!" Lafayette exclaims, watching Alexander stumble over his feet in a desperate attempt to flee. Escape from what exactly? Lafayette wishes he knew.

  
"I'm sincerely sorry, do write to me." He's honest in his apology, leaving Lafayette without a proper explanation is horribly improper to do. He hopes his friend doesn't take offense of it. But he just can't bear to hear the wailed, empty crying anymore.

  
He rushes out the door, the cries still fresh and ringing in his ears. The door closes with a slam and Lafayette is left wondering whether he should delay his departure a week longer.

 

* * *

 

  
Getting back home, Alex creeps into his house before Eliza can notice his absence. Instead of taking the advice of his French friend, Alex goes into his office and does what he knows best: write.

It’s silly to ignore the advice of a trustworthy and competent friend, but Alexander’s escape has always been through writing. Writing passed every tragedy in his life: his mother’s death, his cousin’s suicide, the hurricane. All significant events or people in his life. Much like his relationship with John Laurens. A man Alex can’t bear to lose.  

He knows what he sees is impossible, black magic and European trial cases in the 1600's on witchcraft had long been debunked during the Enlightenment; making it solely a medical issue. He needed sleep as Lafayette had suggested. People constantly made comments about his sleep pattern, Washington, Lafayette, Hercules, Burr, Laurens-

  
No, Alex refused to think about his friend. The more he thought about it, the more likely his hallucination would be of John Laurens. He would look to Angelica for similar help, and if the hallucinations continued with no clear view as to when they would stop, he'd visit a doctor in secret.

  
His day seemed to improve noticeably as time went by. Tension in his shoulders relaxed, his paranoia diminished to a carefree wonder, and his mind drifted from the problem hours prior. Focused on nothing but his writing and studies in law, he was unaware of the time that past.   
A knock at the door changed all that.

The door creaked open and Alexander turned to see his wife. She held a letter in her hands as she approached, Eliza would only deliver the letter herself if it was from John Laurens.

"Alexander? There's a letter for you." She solemnly stated.

  
The words shot out of his mouth like an unhinged horse, "It's from John Laurens. I'll read it later."   
Eliza takes another step towards him wordlessly. A creeping dread scratches its way through his insides, leaving him shifting in discomfort. He turns to his wife and sees her fallen face.

  
"No. It's from his father." She finishes, eyes glued to her husband conveying only the pity one saw when being the bearer of bad news. He swallows thick bile in his throat and doesn't take his eyes off Eliza. Unconsciously begging that Eliza doesn't prove that the hallucinations he'd been seeing wasn’t the truth.

  
In another room, through closed doors, Alex hears Philip start to cry. He knows Eliza hears it as well, but her attention remains on her husband. It only makes Alexander feel worse.

  
"His father?" He manages to quietly croak out. "Will you read it?"

  
It's a childish request, to hear not see the proof presented before him.

  
At some point in, Eliza does read the letter, but by then he's too far caught in his own thought to acknowledge what it truly means. A state of shock so strong that only the grasp of his wife brings him back to reality. He looks up from the letter she clutches, to meet her eyes.   
Behind her stands the figure of his dearest John Laurens. Now, not seen as just a hallucination, but an anomaly of the world.

  
Laurens is engrossed in the letter and the details contained inside of it, an expression similar to Alexander's. However, the circumstances of the expressions varying. One, hearing of the loss of a loved one. The other being, the loved one reading about their own end. Alexander couldn't even begin to fathom how one would react. No living being in the world could possibly describe those emotions.

  
Alexander peels his attention away from his friend, before Laurens could acknowledge that Alexander can see him. He looks at the last sentence written cleanly across the paper.

  
"His dreams of freedom for those men die with him." Eliza finishes.

  
He doesn't know if those words are written with spite; John and his father never did share common views. Or perhaps written in respect for his son -while views not shared- was still a great man nonetheless.


	3. There Goes a Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was always the one left behind. Out in the streets, when they saw me they'd say, That's just one of the Bee Gees.”-Maurice Gibb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are always really short? Motivating myself in this post-Christmas, eggnog induced state of relaxation has me brain dead. But I'm going to start making these longer? (I add the '?' bc longer is subjective to how much you think is a lot)

They don't have a funeral; the body would be sent south to his family for proper burial. Instead, to show respect, nearby people who considered Laurens a friend get together. 

Few people come, as not many people were as willing or patient enough to get past his intoxicated induced exterior or outspoken views against slavery. People feared those that were confident in their opinion. Feared the unpredictable and the misfits that went against the norm, indifferent to the criticism. Those that chose to surround themselves around people such as John Laurens shared his rebellious and stubborn attitudes. Those were the people that change worlds. 

But the ones that do attend are worth more then the dozens who don’t.   
Lafayette is able to come before his departure back to France, Hercules, Alexander- himself, Angelica, Eliza, Peggy, and to his surprise even Burr makes an appearance. 

The get-togethers, once lively and filled with laughter have lost its life as the night came to a close. They recount fond memories, notably Burr complimenting virtues of Laurens that he would have never admitted to the deceased face to face. For a man who stands for nothing, he is correct about one thing- that regardless of what Laurens believed or did- he had the most potential for good. 

It may be the only thing Alex agrees with him on. He'll never admit it though. 

In the corner of the room on a stool, his deceased friend sits. Eyes still wide, head hung low and unmoving, he's detached from the world. Possibly trying to wrap his mind around his death, a hard concept to think about when alive- let alone dead.   
Alexander watches him subtly. Trying not to appear off to his friends or catch the attention of his deceased friend. Up until this moment, John had not attempted to talk to him. A fact Alexander can't help but be relieved with. There was a chance that it was still just a hallucination, just adapting to events happening in Alexander's life. If he left it alone or didn't acknowledge it, it would progressively disappear. So that's what he was doing.

Ignoring the issue; talking less, smiling more.   
But he can’t help notice the ache in his gut telling him otherwise. 

The entrance to the bar opens and George Washington, arguably the most powerful man in America at that moment, takes a step inside. Reminiscing is halted, as every person’s attention is diverted to Washington in awe and surprise. Nobody expected the leader of the Free World to be standing in a quaint bar that served questionable beverages and smelt of musk. His presence far to grand for the small bar to contain.   
Washington scans the room, until his eyes fall on a table of people he is acquainted with. He signals Alexander over and Alex obeys wordlessly, ignoring the faint scoff from Burr. 

Washington places a hand on his shoulder as soon as he is in reach and shoots a pained smile, "It's good to see you, son."

"Sir," Alexander replies pointedly.

"John Laurens was a good man, one of the best," Washington starts, voice low and hoarse. "His death has affected us all and will always remain with us till our own time comes-"

"-It wasn't his time." The statement is bitter and quick, yet Alexander firmly believes it. John come have done so much more, he had so much he wanted to do, but a redcoat decided otherwise. 

"War doesn't discriminate whose life it takes. John chose to fight, he knew the consequences. The consequences we knew and accepted as well."

Alex nodded weakly, "I understand."

"We are the ones left behind, son. The ones left to live in a world forever changed by men like him. Don't let his life go to waste, Alexander." 

Washington is only there briefly, he's a busy man since the war has ended. He gives everyone his condolences, they give him theirs and then he’s off. Shoulders heavy with the weight of a new country, and a heart mourning the loss of a good man.

Not much happens after. They raise a few pints of Sam Adams in Laurens' name, wish each other a goodnight and leave, all with shared sad smiles.   
Laying in bed, Eliza woven tightly beside him, a thought crosses Alexander's mind.  
Maybe they aren't the ones left behind. Perhaps they are all leaving John behind. Frozen, stuck in between two existences, destined to remain as everyone he loved went on with their lives.   
It's a chilling thought. One that sways him to shift closer to Eliza's warmth, closer to her physical presence. Wherever she went, he would follow and vice versa. Neither would ever be left behind for they would always have each other. 

She hums sleepily in satisfaction, a soft smile on her lips. Shutting his eyes, he waits for sleep to come and ignores the rest:  
The chill in the air,

The hallucination of his deceased friend,

The "Alexander," spoken quietly, with trepidation only a lost child would have.

The "Can you hear me?" Begged.

He ignores it all.

How sad is it to be left behind, no longer with a duty to uphold or a significance in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is trying to ignore the problem like I ignore life, will it work? Probably not, in the wise words of Kurt Cobain, "No one dies a virgin, life fucks us all."   
> Also I figured not many people would be down to reminisce about John's life. he was a pretty outspoken dude when it came to being against slavery. While i don't know what actually their mindset was in that time (Whether his opinion was more common and widely accepted or not) I'm going to assume that people took the advice "Talk less, smile more." to heart. Some people prefer to be safe then express their opinions and risk being targeted. 
> 
> (I'm Canadian and horribly rusty with my Grade 10, American history knowledge okay)


	4. What It May Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Truth will ultimately prevail where there is pains to bring it to light.” George Washington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary quote from my main man GEORGE WASHINGTON
> 
> Alex cracks as easily as a egg cracks when I SLAM IT AGAINST MY FRYING PAN

Weeks go by and Alex tries to get on with his day as normal as possible. He's finished his studies of law and works with Burr occasionally for trials. He buries himself in book after book, not daring to look away from the pages, knowing very well what lurks around him. A slumped figure staring at nothing for days on end. An empty shell of his former friend.

But it's not his friend, it's a hallucination. He would never admit to anyone that his deceased friend wanders around aimlessly -lifeless- stuck following Alexander whether he liked it or not.  
No, because if he did ever admit to that, it would be admitting to insanity. 

Alexander wants to believe that it's gotten better. The hallucination has stopped begging for people to notice him, maybe in some desperate attempt to relieve himself of isolation? Whatever it may be, the hallucination has given up.

That is until Alexander is forced by Eliza out of his own seclusion, and into an event with many faces and opportunities for a certain deceased friend; a celebratory banquet for the end of the war.

The celebration that night starts with the arrival of Angelica, Peggy, Elizabeth and himself. Philip, left behind with a maid remains safe at home, away from the people and sleeping soundly. Angelica and Peggy go off to converse with others, leaving Alex and Eliza to themselves.  
They walk in together, hand in hand as colleagues and elites greet them. A bloody solider in a navy coat and white-stained-red shirt follows from behind, looking from person to person. The moment they make their way into the largest part of the building, his hallucination is gone. Not beside him, but wandering around, eyes large and hopeful.

He watches from his peripheral as Lauren's goes to each impeccably dressed acquaintance he may have met prior, begging them to see him. Tries to touch their shoulders but goes right through, intangible by any human contact. Alex watches the desperation and confusion grow in his friend's eyes. He wants to wipe away those fears, but he can't seem to wipe away his. To succumb and admit insanity, or remain living the proper conforming way, happy and ignorant?

At some point, the desperation in John grows beyond repair. He lets out a sharp yell of frustration, grabbing at the curls of his hair. The yell is loud and sudden, making Alex quickly slap his hands over top his ears and flinch. The table he is sat at jolts at his sudden movement, cutlery shifting with a clang.  
The people he had been in a conversation with stop in surprise, they eye him carefully and Eliza puts a delicate hand on his shoulder, surprise riddling her face. 

"Alexander, are you alright?" She asks in concern. He waved her off, standing up from where he sat.

"I’ll have to excuse myself," he explains as professionally as he can without panicking further. "I am in need of some air."  
He hurries away, past people giving him odd stares and past John Laurens, whose eyes- once dead, now lit with a growing flame- follows his movement.  
Alexander pushes the doors to the outside, going around the corner of the building into a secluded tiny garden filled with a collection of flowers. The hedges that border the garden makes Alex’s shoulders relax ever so slightly with relief. Onlookers won’t be able to bear witness to his panic.  
He sits down heavily at a marble bench and puts his head in his hands. 

He knows John Laurens is in front of him, staring at him in wonder. 

"You can see me." The southern, soft voice says in fascination. "You can really see me."

Alex shakes his head, digging his nails in his scalp in denial. He refuses to look at the hallucination.  
"No," He bites back, shaking his head in rejection. "You aren't real."

"But I am." John protests stubbornly. "Alexander, please."

"A hallucination of my dearest John Laurens. If I leave it be it will disappear." He told himself again.  
The hallucination crosses his arms, brows furrowed, and freckles scrunched in disdain, "Deep down you know that not to be true."

The reaction is instant and frankly explosive. Alexander shoots up from the bench, getting unnervingly close to hallucination and staring him dead in the eyes. 

"Deep down I must realize that you are dead, and that's all you may ever be!" The end turns briefly into a yell of frustration.

He's sick of the constant back and forth in his mind. The slim belief that his dearest Laurens' is actually with him, despite death, and that he is insane. Or that his hallucinations have morphed into something much more then just sleep deprivation. That its taken a life of its own because of all the significant events happening in the last couple of months. 

John narrows his eyes, "I died for you."

"You knew the consequences." Alex seethes, recounting the words of Washington.  
The standoff doesn't last. John's eyes slowly lose its anger, burning out and drowning in its own smoke. He takes a step back, suddenly looking very tired and very much dead.  
Now that whatever the thing in front of him -whether John or a hallucination- knows that he can see him. Alex gets a good look at the man. 

He's pale, not sheer white, but a his lighter then his natural hue. The white shirt is stained just at the top of his left rib cage. A bloody mess of red, that Alexander is secretly grateful he can't see under. The body isn’t completely transparent, around the edges and outline of his figure a soft fade, similar to a sun rising from directly behind him, encasing his silhouette.  
Alex's heart hurts momentarily, because it looks so much like John Laurens. His closest friend, the one that understood him better then anyone and stood by his side regardless. 

"I'm sorry," An apology escapes his lips. "But you must understand, if I am to believe you, then I must be insane."

"Yes, I know." 

"And you understand what that may mean for me?"

"Yes."

A twig snaps under the weight of a foot coming from the side. Their attention is thrown aside to Angelica, who stands at the entrance of the garden underneath an arch of roses. Her hand is at her mouth to mask the surprise, brows shot up.  
Alex's hands fall to his side as he locks eyes with her. He doesn't know how much she's seen, but he's sure it's probably enough.

"Alexander..." She began, concern riddled in her voice. The steps she takes towards Alex are slow and methodical, as if backing an animal in a small corner. "Who are you taking too?"

"No one." It's a quick response that comes out the moment she finishes her question. 

"Tell her you're talking to me," John begs, throwing aside all that he's heard in the last minute or so. He wishes that Alex would try and spread the news that he existed in someway or another. But the man was terrified of being considered an extreme level of insane. He didn't want to lose his job, or lose his family.  
Angelica reaches out to her brother in law, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Alexander, know that you can confide in me about anything. I will always be here for you. Whether an ocean away or otherwise."

The last comment throws Alex off, and he furrows his brows in confusion, "An ocean away? Why would you mention that?"

She looks to the ground, unable to meet his eyes. "I am sailing off to London, I've found myself a husband."

He nods solemnly, keeping a stony facade. "I see."

"Please, Alexander, if there is anything troubling your mind tell me now. I will do anything for those I care about." She urges, taking his hand and squeezing it. 

"Angelica?" John tries weakly, the ending breaking ever so slightly. His hand is hovering over her shoulder, scared to bring down only to fall through her.  
Alex winces, John Laurens was always an extrovert at heart, a hands-on man. To be touch starved and isolated, forced to follow a man who did not want to believe in him. That was the epitome of hell.  
It reminded him of slavery. The idea Laurens was dead set on abolishing and had been the reason for his demise ultimately. Alex, while could seem irritating and unattached to some people was not a man for slavery. It was a common view John had shared with Alex that they had bonded over. He knew what it felt like to have no control in life on the island as a child. He understood the pain of wanting to be more then what he was told to do. 

"Angelica," He spoke up, pushing every doubt and fear away for the time being. "I am experiencing something that goes against every ounce of logic I know."

"And what may that be?" Her voice is soft and comforting, relaxing Alex's shoulders from their tension. 

"An afterimage of John Laurens seems to follow me." He admits. 

"Our John Laurens?" She asked. He nodded, running his hand through his hair. 

"I know not if he is real or just a figment of my imagination," He explains. "Am I going insane?"

She takes some time, finding her words. "You are a man of logic and reason. Have you tried to figure out why this may be?"

"Yes, I've confided in Lafayette. Originally it was thought that it was just a lack of sleep and poor health. But now it doesn't seem so." 

"Has... John said anything to you?" It's slow and partly incredulous. Speaking the words just felt foreign and wrong. But it wasn’t something she was disgusted or repelled by, a part of her actually wanted to hear more, curious as to what Hamilton might say. 

"He's been trying to get the attention of others but only I seem to see him." Alex informs. John leans in closer, hands fidgeting anxiously. He looks to Alex, hope rising in his expression. Alexander looks at him.

"Tell her that she's wonderful and that she is the first person I've talk to aside from yourself." 

Angelica looks from Alexander to the empty spot he is staring at. "Do you see him?"

"Yes, and he has told me to tell you that you are wonderful," Alexander lets Angelica blush at the comment before continuing. "And that you are the first person he has talked too aside from myself."  
Angelica gapes, looking around the garden as if she could spot John if she tried hard enough.  
They spend some more time in the tiny garden, Alexander explaining when his deceased friend started to appear. Angelica listens attentively to his story, adding insight every so often. 

Angelica looks at her hands before moving her attention to the empty space around her. Possibly looking for the presence of her invisible friend again. "Forgive me, but its difficult to wrap my head around this." 

"Don't worry, the same goes for me." Alex informs, shifting on the bench.

John thinks for a second, "Tell her that I once took Peggy out to dinner, before we left for the war."  
Alex can't help but do a double take, staring at his friend in surprise. "You did?"  
Angelica frowns in confusion, "What did I do?"  
Shaking his head, Alexander shifts to face both Angelica and Laurens. "No, not you. John told me that he and Peggy went out to dinner before we left for the war." 

Her eyes widen in surprise and her lips part. 

"Afterwards, I took her uptown to see a play and returned her home before her father could notice-"  
Alex repeats everything out loud, word for word.  
"-But before I could wish her a goodnight-"

"-I caught them." Angelica finishes breathlessly. The wheels in her head turn and she loses color in her face. "And promised I would say nothing. Laurens was a man of his word, he would not have told you prior to his death… oh my."  
She presses her hand against her lips, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. They shine in awe, no need of the sun's light.

"John Laurens," She mumbled. Once a skeptic, now a believer, the light in her eyes can't help but encapsulate Alexander.  
Not noticing similar tears forming at the edges of his vision, he watches as Angelica gets up from the marble bench. 

John hesitantly steps towards her, facing the crying lady. She can't see him, but she knows he exists, and that's all John really wanted. 

"John Laurens," She repeats as if it might be lost if she didn't repeat it. "You really are here. We mourned you, cried for you- but here you are." 

Her shaky hands clasp together and she glances at Alexander with an relieved smile. Tears stream down her face, but the smile overwhelms them. 

"You're here with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ham doesn't really know if he's going insane or not. Mental health is honestly only like a 19th C.- 21st C. thing, so no disorders we know today are recognized back then. ALSO, the whole witch trials in Europe around the 1600s and later America kind of freaked people out, because well... witches sabbath meant kissing the Devil's ass and orgies (I'm not kidding, there is literal art and books ((Hammer of the Witches)) that talk about this stuff) so people really didn't want to associate with anything out of the ordinary.  
> And I figured with Hamilton being in the Age of Enlightenment and a man of knowledge he probably wouldn't believe in supernatural shit like witches and ghosts. Basically, he's conflicted between believing that he is insane, or believing in something that goes against everything he's ever known.  
> Also Angelica just goes with the flow


	5. Give What You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel the capacity to care is the thing which gives life its deepest significance.’- Pablo Casals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I spent the New Years Countdown in a taxi, but not going to lie probably my favorite New Years memory so far

Do you believe me now?" Laurens asks, watching Alexander intently from where he leans against Philip's wall. Alex runs his fingers through his sleeping son's curly hair gently, humming a faint tune.

"While I still have my doubts, I am less resilient in believing you." He speaks quietly so his son doesn't wake up nor his wife in another room. His back faces the apparition of his friend, slumped over his son.

"What should I do to stop those doubts?"

Alexander looks over his shoulder, eyes meeting the others. His eyes burn with an undeniable power, a confidence to them that terrified any opposition. "Nothing. The only thing you can do is give me time."

"Spoken like Burr." Laurens smirked.

"You died," Alexander states sternly, getting up from beside his son and making his way towards John. His face is serious, brows set. "You died and we mourned- we are still mourning John, do you understand how that may feel?"

"I’d assume the same as realizing you've died." John remarks. He doesn't mean for it to come out harsh or bitter, but it does, and as he watches Alexander flinch back at the comment, he loathes his impulsive nature.

"I'm sorry."

Alex raises a hand to stop the apology. "We are both in a strange situation, with no idea what to do. Rash comments are bound to happen, I won't hold that over you."

Alex goes back over to his son, to his surprise noticing that John joins him. Together they watch silently the sleeping child. Blissful and unaware of the horrors in life. A child who has yet to learn of death, war, bloodshed, hate.

How peaceful that must be, to see the world as pure and untainted.

Alexander as a child never was given that blessing. His life from the very start had been solely about survival, and although he had his mother for only a short period, he still was forever grateful for being loved by her.

A love he would rival with his own for Philip.

A sidelong glance has Alexander glued to the sight of his dear friend. Laurens smiles fondly at Philip, but there is a lingering sadness in his eyes.

Despite the moon being high up in the sky and not a single candle lit, Alex can make out every beautiful detail of his friend. His presence quite literally glows, illuminating the room around him.

It's beautiful, a sight that leaves Alexander breathless.

"I wish, I could hold him." John mumbles, fingers lingering just above Philip’s head of hair. Alexander looked at his friend unable to hide the pity that swamped his expression.

His fingers shifted at his side professedly on their own. They moved gingerly, inching towards Lauren’s side, unconsciously itching to brush against John. Where thick, navy fabric would have been, air replaced it as a miserable substitute.

Laurens shuttered under the brush, but didn’t seem to notice, his thought taking him away to the painful truth. That he’d never really have direct contact with anyone again. That he was merely air in the room, taking up no space and invisible to the human eye.

Alex couldn’t give his friend the comfort he needed, but he could try and give him reassurance that he was still significant in this unfair world.

“I’ll raise him to be a man you’d be proud of.” Alex mumbles honestly.

“Like his father but bolder." Laurens hums, a smirk stretching across his face. “If this still carries any significance, given the situation, I’ll watch him and protect him with all that I can give.”

Tears couldn’t help but threatened to make an appearance, “That is more then anyone could ask for.”

“Ask for what, Alexander?” A soft voice asked from behind. The pair turned around to see Eliza. She stood at the doorframe in her night gown, head tilted and eyes on Alex’s.

His chapped lips parted and quickly with a smooth tongue, he smiled, “Philip- Philip is more then I could have asked.”

Eliza smiled, eyes sharing the same endearment her husband felt for their precious son. She approached the bed, settling beside Alexander, in the process, stepping straight through John unknowingly.

With eyes like saucers, Laurens stumbles away from the husband and wife, his fist gripping tightly the fabric of his navy coat.

It’s an incomprehensible feeling. To be intangible, not taking up a single measurement of space. His insides burn and as the last bit of Eliza steps through John, he feels winded. All the air blown out of him and incapable of retrieving anymore.

He knows Alex watches him closely, tracking every stumbled step with surprised eyes, concerned for the well-being of his friend. However, Alex, too caught up in the tiny incident forgets what he has been trying so hard not to show.

That he isn’t insane and seeing a hallucination of his closet- dearest, deceased friend.

Laurens waves him off once he takes a seat on the floor to catch his breath. Alex’s attention must be on his wife and son, not the floor.

“Will you come to bed with me now?” Eliza asked lovingly, long lashes flickering up and down sleepily.

Lauren’s friend’s eyes glance briefly over Eliza’s shoulder, connecting with Laurens’. He can sense the concern in his friend’s eyes, a troubled look that has caused many situations to arise in the past. Knowing Alex, he will attempt to interrogate Laurens as to what just happened. Something John would honestly not have the answers too.

“Don’t worry Hamilton, I’ll be here when you wake.” John manages to say, partly out of breath and still on the floor. “Go to bed, I’m fine.”

Silently, without further argument- a rare occasion- Alex takes his wife’s hand, leading her away from Philip and out of the room. He knows that he can’t argue, if he had, Eliza would have front row seats to her husband’s fall into insanity.   


“Goodnight.” John hears Alex say faintly, whether towards his son or himself, John may not know.

But as the door shuts behind the couple, the darkness consumes the room, with only the faint glow of Laurens to break through and illuminate.

John sits in silence, getting up slowly with the help of a dresser as support. He pulls himself up, still feeling weak from the passing through of his body, and finds a chair to fall heavily against.

“I’ll be here,” He whispers. “Whenever you may need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ham the Man can't give Johnny what he really needs (that is not to be touch starved and be seen) but he still can show Laurens that he is significant in Ham's life; dead or alive. Laurens can't give Ham what he needs (comfort and an alive bff) but he can promise Ham to watch Philip: arguably one of the most important people in his life


	6. Anchor of Dissatisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The more pain that's referenced or implied, the deeper the laugh can be because the laughter heals the pain. So, you've got to have the pain, and then you have the laugh.” -Mimi Kennedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My babe Angelica is finally delivering the plot that I so horribly wrote. Ham and John joke around bc I'm not a sicko that gets all her kicks off pain (Keyword: all)

Angelica tries to get a hold of Alex more frequently as the days since the garden incident go by.

She writes him letters, insists to see him, but each and every time Alex is unable too. Whether his job, or promises to uphold, he never gets a chance. Leaves start to fall from the trees and Angelica’s departure date approaches as the cold chills do.

The apparition of his friend grows more and more impatient as each leaf floats to the ground, succeeding in its goal before the others. He silently paces the grounds of the house as only a cool breeze to anyone he walks by; exploring the manor and watching Philip otherwise. When his temper cools he tends to aid Hamilton in his writings, mainly about slavery and the freedom of all men.

While Alexander never admits it, it brings back fond nostalgic memories of the two prior to Yorktown, writing essays against slavery, determined and hopeful, seeing only the goal in front of them. Nevertheless, John’s insights are still fresh and passionate, if not more since his sacrifice for the cause. If Alex had the mindset of a dead man, he’d assume it was, so his legacy didn’t end with his death.

It’s a week before Angelica’s departure when Eliza informs her husband that her eldest sister will be staying with them until the date. If John could drink, he would be in a drunken state of celebration, ecstatic with the arrival of someone besides Alexander that acknowledged his existence.  

He talks nonstop, words shooting out at a thousand miles per second. So much, that Hamilton starts to realize why Burr is always so irritated with him in trials. He doesn’t give his dear friend trouble though, after all Laurens can only be seen and heard by himself- whether he is willing to listen or not.

John looks out the window, leaning forward with heels practically vibrating in excitement. He turns back to Alexander, whose nose is buried in his work, too stubborn and committed to look up.

“Angelica is here,” He states, prying his body away from the window to hover over Alex’s shoulder. “Do you think she’d wish to talk to me?”

“Most likely about you, John.”

“Nonetheless, a lady like herself talking about a fellow like me. It’s a shame it can only happen after my demise.” He chuckles quietly.

“Don’t say that.” Alex scoffs sternly, shooting a look at John. The mention of his friend’s death was still a sensitive subject, others slowly adjusted to the loss of their friend, learning to move on and be grateful for life. The outspoken, nonstop man that was Alexander Hamilton, however could not. He was stuck in the past, and only Angelica would know why.

John pulls a face, in smug indifference, “You sound like my father. Have you already started to grow white hair?”

The quip is short and bittersweet, obviously intentional in lightening the mood. Though a fact, Hamilton can’t help smiling nostalgic, “Quite the contrary,” He hums grinning, “I can still drink as I had in my youth. Two pints of Sam Adams you say? That’s child’s play.”

“Maybe lawyer is not the best suited job for you, have you thought of joining the town ‘s drunkard occupation?”

Alexander laughs, deep and real, “With my qualifications I could be the town’s madman as well.”

“Double the accolades!”   

Down below them, on the first floor of the manor, the familiar voices of Eliza and Angelica seep through the floorboard. Alex rises from his chair, preparing to go greet Angelica and help her settle in. The man and the ghost walk down towards the ladies, John’s pace quickening in excitement. He bounds down the stairs without making a noise, jumping off the last few steps like he had graduated from college and ready to explore the world.

“Angelica!” John laughs happily, stopping directly in front of her. His greeting goes unheard by the women, instead being acknowledged as a simple breeze.

Alexander follows seconds behind, approaching them with a warm smile. He hugs Angelica, before offering to take her bags up to where she will temporarily be staying.

Eliza waits to hug her sister, breaking off and pointing towards the kitchen, “I’ll go and fetch us some tea. Alexander, will you show Angelica to her room?”

They break off, Alex taking the eldest sister upstairs and to the guest room.  

“How are you doing?”

“I’m well, if not a little upset.” She mumbled. “You never arranged for us to meet since the banquet. I’ve been going mad thinking about our mutual friend’s situation.”

He stares at her confused, head tilted to the side, “Mutual friend?”

The eldest sister rolls her eyes, looking cautiously behind her then to her sides. She leans in, brows furrowed in seriousness. “John Laurens. Because of how outlandish the situation is, we shouldn’t refer to him by name in fear of others hearing. Is he still with you?”

It made sense. Talking causally about a deceased man though he were alive, would raise suspicion and potentially ruin both Alex and Angelica’s lives. It would be best to keep John as anonymous as possible when in public.

Alex nodded, “He is still ever present.”

A shy smile works its way across Angelica’s face, as her eyes lose their usual protective and threatening look, replaced with a comforting relaxation.

“Hello Jackie,” She says quietly, not to Alexander, but John.

John beams happily, the glow of his figure brightening ever so slightly. He bows briefly as a gentleman would, looking back at her with endearment.

“Hello Angelica. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Alex repeats what John said, as a communicator between the physical and spiritual.

Her lips draw back in sadness, “I wish the same could be said. I must admit though, I’m envious of Alexander’s ability to see you.”

“You shouldn’t be, he never seems to stop talking.” Alexander complains, John rolls his eyes.

She smirks playful, “Sounds like another man I know.”

Ignoring the sour glare shot her way by Alex, she takes one of her bags from Alexander’s hand, placing it on the bed and opening it. The contents in the bag stay neatly organized as she digs her hands into it and rummages around.

“You left me with such an interesting revelation at the banquet, that I couldn’t help but want to inquire more knowledge about your situation.” Both John and Alex visibly perk up in interest at the statement. Angelica pulls a wide book from her bag, checking it over for any marks and handing it to Alexander. “And I do believe that Lauren’s presence may not be from a declining mental state, but spiritual journey.”

“Spiritual journey?” Both Alex and John question in unison.

“In many of the books I’ve read, cultures from all around the world have similar cases of the souls of deceased loved ones stuck in our plane of existence.”

“Why?” John asked, and Alexander voiced.

“They are not fully content with where their life ended. Achievements, relationships- people left behind that the soul is not ready to abandon.”

“I do still want to see the removal of slavery,” John mumbles to himself thoughtfully. Alex takes note of that, however his thoughts occupied by a nudging question.

“Is there an explanation as to why I see him?”

Angelica shakes her head and Alex’s heart drops. So, there wasn’t a reasoning as to why Alex was both haunted and blessed with the presence of his closet friend. The possibly of insanity was still up in the air, while unspoken- it did gather in Alex’s mind, taunting him.

She placed her hand on her hip, putting weight on her right leg. “It’s possible your connection as his friend swayed his presence?’

Alexander sat on the bed in thought, gesturing for Angelica to follow. John seemed to grow unusually quiet at the mention of connection, taking a step back from the pair, fidgeting with his jacket’s cuffs. His behavior may have seemed questioning, if Alexander hadn’t failed to notice it. But Alexander was a man that, once in thought, it was practically impossible to catch his attention. Once his mind was set on something, everything around became noise in a void.

“What of his family, did they not provide enough love to him?” He mumbled, face knotted in concentration and reflection.

“Alexander-” Laurens spoke and was quickly ignored.

“-John was young, intelligent and passionate,” He examined more. “Yet never mentioned any lady or even the subject of intimacy for that matter to us. He could have preferred to stay as a free man- more excitement, less trou-.”

“-Hamilton!” Laurens almost yelled defensively, Alex’s head snapped up in surprise. Angelica, surprised at Alexander’s random jerk followed his wide eyes to where John was possibly. John was flushed and noticeably upset, shoulders tense and his right hand gripping the fabric of his cotton shirt tightly. “Do not pick apart life and relationships as though I am not standing right in front of you. If I had the answers to our problem, do you not think I might share them with you?”

The rusty gears in Alex’s brain connected to empathy and emotion slowly started to turn. While a brilliantly man in most subjects, he somewhat lacked inter-personal intelligence. For all his life, up until only a few weeks ago, he had been constantly fighting for survival. To survive he had to think only for himself, fight for himself. To do otherwise would be a potential root for failure.

It took a second, but Alex manage to squeeze out a tiny: “Sorry.”

Angelica, who had witnessed many occasions of Alexander’s nonstop- sometimes insensitive- detailed brainstorms, was able to put together the situation, despite only hearing one side. She placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder, squeezing it gently as to prompt the end of the discussion.

“It might be best if we leave this for another time.” She explained. “This talk can wait, Eliza and her tea cannot.”

Angelica dragged Alexander out the room, forcefully starting up a new conversation on how Philip was doing. John watched them leave, waiting until they were out of distance before letting out a shaky exhale. His shoulders slumped back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.

He had a feeling Alexander’s endless parade for knowledge would only stop when he uncovered every detail of John that made him tick; the good, the bad, the sinful.

Taking an even deeper inhale, he left the room, following wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things are slowly coming together? (Even Buddha didn't have to wait this long) and Ham needs to take a chill-pill when he gets in the zone.
> 
> Also my Christmas break is almost over and then I'll be forced to head back to Uni and attend classes that I will most likely will sleep through.


	7. The Payment of Hard Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The reason a lot of people do not recognize opportunity is because it usually goes around wearing overalls looking like hard work.” -Thomas A. Edison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of my quotes are coming from those old dudes in America (Go figure). They just got those quality quotes
> 
> So, I waxed one leg, fell asleep, woke up realizing I had to pack my stuff to move back into Uni, and now I’m here.  
> (One day I'm going to edit the shit out of this)

 

As the day progressed, Angelica noticed her brother in-law retreating into his head. He didn’t comment or rebuttal conversations as he normally would passionately. Instead, focusing on whatever was in his hands at the time, brows knotted together and squinting. Angelica continuously tried to lure him into the talks, slipping false information or controversial opinions into the discussion to provoke the man, but with no success, Hamilton remained encased in thought.

Odd in his behavior, even Eliza noticed.

“My dear, are you alright? She asks, placing a hand on her husband’s tenderly. “You’ve been off ever since Yorktown, trapped in that mind of yours. I worry about you.”

How could Alexander explain to his wife that the reason he was so out-of-character and lost in his own mind, was because the apparition of his dearest friend -now six feet under, encased in wood and dirt- followed him around? How could one go about that without being marked down as insane? Alex couldn’t, not to his wife at least.

“If I may,” Angelica offered lightly, “Going from a dangerous environment such as war, to a peaceful home environment takes some time to adjust and settle in. I’m sure he’ll be back to his usual self in no time, Eliza.”

The last part was a bold-faced lie. Both Angelica and Alexander knew that as long as Laurens was still around, Alex would be constantly reminded of war and the people he lost. Yet frankly, she had to lie for her sister, and if not a little bit for herself. This changed man in the aftermath of a long war was unsettling. She wished for the old Alex back, the passionate loud-mouthed, bow down to no one attitude that made up him.

He seems to shake out of his stupor, getting up, “I have work to do.” He mumbles, his voice sidelong and monotone. He leaves swiftly, the two ladies watching as he went with concerning eyes. Angelica takes that moment to switch seats, sitting on the couch beside Eliza.

Her younger sister is torn, riddled with worry for a man she loves dearly. Eliza has always been the sensitive and caring one of the sisters. She simply cared for all, her heart too big for her body. To see her consumed with worry was something Angelica couldn’t stand for.

She hugged her younger sister tightly to ensure her of her love, rubbing her back in slow circles.

“Eliza, do not worry, he may seem distant but know that he still loves you.” She kisses her sister’s forehead, extending the embrace longer. “For now, you can rely on my undying love to satisfy you.”

A soft laugh escapes Eliza and Angelica’s heart warms. Her sister’s laughter and smiles could warm an entire country, there was no conceivable value to it. Alexander was a fool to disregard it.

 

* * *

 

 

One moment John was in Philip’s room watching the handmaid like a hawk, until a stabbing sensation in his gut spread at an alarming rate, causing him to lose balance and black out temporarily.

When his vision came back, and his sense of balance was restored, he found himself blinking in confusion with his surroundings. No longer was he inside Philip’s room, but outside in the streets of New York, the Hamilton household behind him. Alexander was swiftly heading the opposite way, only worsening the stabbing pain and ache in John’s body with distance.

“Where are we going?” John asked, walking briskly after Alex. His friend showed no signs of surprise as he fell in line. Having grown accustomed to John being constantly with him day and night.

“The library.” Alex mumbled, carefully with his volume and the odd glances that could come his way. Better not to stand out as the man talking to himself, and rather just a mutterer.

John dug in even more, “At this hour?”

“The sun has yet to set, we have plenty time.”

“And why do we have our eyes set on the library?

“The revolution has only just ended. We are much more concerned with the structure of our new government then documentation. The chances the church might carry them are unlikely, so the library is the last possible place.” A lady glances at Alex as he walks by, however she doesn’t look high in wealth or social status, so she won’t pry.

John thinks for a moment, recalling the beginning of the first black battalion, “But wouldn’t the documents be in South Carolina for the most part?” He questions, “It’s where I did most of my rounds, persuading their masters to allow them to take part in the revolution.”

“Yes, but I must believe at least one of your men flourished with the opportunity you gave them. I intend to figure out where; hopeful in New York."

John falls behind in pace briefly, Alex slowing down in return. The apparition’s fists are clenched tightly at his side, visibly shaking in anger. Alex can’t help but raise a brow in concern.

"They deserve freedom." John whispered, spiteful. “They were _promised_ it.”

“Not all men are as fine as you.” His voice is sullen, yet honest.

His comment fades in the air as they continue to walk. Each man now driven with a sense of passion.

When they get to the library, Hamilton shoots straight towards the head librarian like a tiger pouncing on its prey. An older man, sat at a cluttered desk with a sour expression, reads oblivious to hurricane of a man he will unfortunately meet in future moments.

John hurries after Alex, a nostalgic sensation he usually got whenever Alex confronted someone coursing through his body. It was always entertaining watching a passionate and stubborn man like Alexander talk a man into desperation. A feeling in his gut suggested that this conversation may end similar to Seabury’s. John steps back to watch the show.

“Do you have documentation on battalions in the revolution?” Alex skips all pleasantries, startling the older man with his straight-forwardness.   

The man looks Alex up and down, taking in every detail of his opponent. His eyes squint in a glare, nose scrunched up, “And who might you be?”

“Alexander Hamilton, and it would be most welcoming if you would answer my question.” He lifts his lapel ever so slightly, digging his hand into the breast on his coat pocket.

“On whose authority?”

“On the authority of Your Excellency, George Washington.” In a swift grab, Alex pulls a letter from his coat pocket, presenting it daringly in front of the librarian. Written neatly at the bottom in perfect writing is George Washington, the leader of the free world’s signature. The older man’s eyes bug out in shock and he can hear John choke, wheezing in disbelief.

Hamilton stands firm and proper, hardened eyes glued onto the older man’s. While he may seem confident externally, internally Alex prays that the man won’t take precaution.

To his luck, the librarian shoots up from his seat, fumbling over the pile of papers on his desk. He grabs a sheet closer to the top of the pile, presenting it quickly in front of Alex. “This is the section and aisle in which the documents will be. I’m sincerely sorry for any trouble I’ve given you.”

Alex takes the sheet, glancing at it briefly before shooting a stern look at the anxious man. He turns on his heel towards the section of the building he must go to, smiling smugly as John whistles in astonishment.   

“How did you manage to get that?”

“I wrote it. Countless hours of our work as aide de camp seem to pay off, hasn’t it my dear Laurens.”

John can only gap in fascination, eyes brimming in awe, “Hamilton… you devil. What if General Washington discovers this?”

“He won’t.”

“You carry a lot of confidence for a man that just plagiarized the leader of our country’s name.”

They make their way into a secluded room separated from the main room. The room is dimly lit, dusts noticeably collecting at any untouched piece. Nobody has come into this room for awhile with a purpose, only to dispose of unnecessary documents. Several boxes of papers that lay unceremoniously strewn around the room catch Alex’s attention. They look fairly new, only a thin line of dust building on the tops.

Alex heads for the boxes, whilst John stands at the foot of the door, surveying the room with sad eyes.

He looks across the room with a frown, “One fights for their country, and this is how their sacrifices rewards them; collecting dust, untouched and forgotten by man for weeks if not months.” Laurens says quietly, as Alexander makes his way to the boxes, kneeling to examine them further.

He looks over his shoulder to the silhouette of his companion. “I would like you to believe that, when we celebrate liberty, we celebrate the lives of those who cannot.”

“And what have you?” Laurens asked, genuinely interested in what the man thought himself. “What do you believe?”

Alexander looked at the boxes, lips parting into a downward curve. “I have seen many things in my short life: life… death, tyranny, liberty, sickness that destroys a person, hurricanes that leave nothing behind- I’ve seen it all. But people, people always amaze me. They pass a basket around -total strangers- for the life of a boy that had been ravaged by the same hurricane. They take up arms regardless of how terrified they are. People with the ability to love is what I believe in.”

“And those that hate?”

Alexander smirks deviously, “They can face my wraith.” Gesturing John over, he lays out a dozen or so documents on the floor for John to read. While his hands didn’t work the way they use to, his eyes were still as keen as ever. “Shall we get to work?”

 

* * *

 

A never-ending stream of documents and one nervous checkup from the librarian later, the pair tiredly filter through the last of the boxes. Both slumped against the wall, backs sore and patience on its last string.

“Perhaps the documents we need really are in South Carolina.” The thought seems to register sluggishly through Alex’s mind, as realization dawns on him, his face contorting in agony at the thought. “More republicans.” He groans.

“My father,” John matches his expression. After an exasperated sigh, John looks to Alex. “Hamilton, please don’t go to South Carolina. I wish to avoid seeing my body.”

“As do I.”

John scans the papers scattered on the floor with a far-away stare. “South Carolina may be my birth home, but New York carries a stronger sentiment in my heart.”

“I have found a home in New York also…” His voice drifts off, thought consumed in something else. John can see the gears in Alexander’s head spark to life as an idea forms in the statesman’s brilliant mind. “Home…” He mumbles, brown eyes lighting up. “If a man that worked in southern plantations managed to become a free, where would he go? He would never willing stay in South Carolina, nay, he would go back home.”

John sits up, catching on to Alexander’s idea. With a sudden burst of determination, he scrambles over the papers, eyes no longer glossing over the words but digging for treasure. “Look for the birth home, Alexander! The birth homes!”

Before his exclamation can even escape his lips, Hamilton is already skipping through a bundle of documents he set aside as possibilities.

Instead of looking for where they resided with work, the man and the ghost began to look for where members of Lauren’s regiment were born. While most were labelled under southern countries* and even across the ocean, a scattered few were listed with closer distances, three having lived in New York.

John howled with excitement, the thrill spreading to his closest friend whose laughter turned into a similar cheer.

“We still have a shot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Often in letters they referred to the states as countries. So when I mean southern countries I don't mean like Mexico etc. :)
> 
> My boi Ham pretends to know what he's doing, but really he's internally screaming. I feel like Ham could bs pretty much anything and get away with it.   
> Also I suck at plot, get over it.


	8. Wraith Faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.” -Alcaeus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter, Ham said that he believed in good people, which then John asked the question of, ‘what about those rude ass peeps’ (paraphrasing). Ham made it clear that he didn’t believe in them stating, ‘I’ll 1v1 them.’ Pretty much, Hammie only believes in good people. He’s witnessed all sorts of shit and finds it hard to put faith in people that piss him off.

 

The next chance at finding one of the members of Lauren’s regiment comes a week later. Much to their impatience, Hamilton’s work becomes the focus as days go by with the arrival of Thomas Jefferson, resident headache and overall horrible human being. Alexander attempts to be civil for Washington’s sake, however the moment Jefferson opens his pretentious mouth, sprouting opinions on the war while simultaneously boasting of the effectiveness of slavery, has John trying to throttle him with no success.

If John disapproves, then it is quite obvious he does too.

“I firmly believe Jefferson and Lee were raised in the same household.” Seethed John, still riled up from the last meeting Hamilton was required to attend with Jefferson.

“Some evils can only be committed by men like them.” Alex agreed darkly, before swiftly clearing his expression of all distaste for Jefferson. They had much more important matters to attend too, after all they were headed towards the residence of one of John’s former soldiers.

As the path continued, grand buildings and fine design slowly morphed into smaller, simpler houses. Less people were on the streets and those that were silently scrutinized Alexander’s presence. However, he wasn’t fazed, much to Laurens’ surprise. Walking as he normally would, no hesitation to his steps.

They stopped in front of a smaller, brick home jammed between two larger developing buildings. The pair looked at the worn door, half expecting it to burst open in a ray of light, an outstretched hand appearing in front of them as desired guidance.

Instead, a crow crackled nearby.

Alexander took a brief breath, tapping at the door with the knuckles of his fist. The faint scurry and footsteps from the other side grew louder as the distance between Alexander and possible answers got shorter.

The worn door opened a crack, and Alexander unconsciously leaned towards it.

“Mr. Dyer Williams?” He asked to a young dark-skinned man on the otherwise. The young man seemed in a state of surprise to see Alex at his doorstep. It was possible that he didn’t get visitors like Alexander as often.

“Sir,’ The man greeted warily, eyeing Alex with hesitation. “Can I help you?”

“I was looking to acquire information on the regiment you were apart of.”

“What for?”

“On my own accord, my name is Alexander Hamilton. A dear friend of mine was apart of the regiment and I desire to know more of what happened to him.”

“Apart of the regiment?” Dyer echoed skeptically, as though the thought of Alexander having a close friend in the battalion was beyond his belief. “And you believe I can aid you in finding information?”

“Yes!” Alex’s eyes lit up. “You see, he died before he could see the end of the war and the only knowledge I have of him was from a vague letter from his father.” Alexander peered over the man’s shoulder, looking inside curiously. “May I come in?” He asked.

Dyer, not knowing the full extent of what to do, reluctantly opened a path to the inside, letting Alexander walk on in. He watched silently as Alexander explored the small main room slowly, examining interesting furniture and paintings.

“Beautiful colors,” He mused, looking at a vibrant oil painting of a place somewhere in rural land. Rolling green hills speckled with ivory dots spread throughout the painting, tinted by the warm glow of a setting sun in the distance. Dyer’s eyes widened from behind, surprised at the genuine compliment.

He bowed his head softly, “At times, Carolina’s fields can be pleasant.” Taking a deep breath, Dyer approached Alexander tentatively. “With all due respect, Mr. Hamilton… sir. The chance of me knowing your friend is unlikely.”

“All should know of the one that leads them into battle.” Alexander waited as the gears clicked in Dyer’s head. The moment of realization of who that friend was and the authority he held, the young man’s expression quickly changed. “Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was my dearest friend, yet somehow I still remain unacquainted to his death.”

Williams couldn’t help but gawk. “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?”

“You wouldn’t have let me in.” Alexander said with an sly smile hidden behind an innocent expression that could trick almost anyone. “People can sympathize the loss of a friend. Not all are willing to for the man that led them. All I ask are answers”

“You intentionally seek out the truth, no matter how painful it may be?”

“I sacrifice only for the ones I love.”

Dyer takes a moment of thought. “Lt. Col Laurens led well. While at times rash and quick to action, he carried careful consideration of his men’s well being; despite a war waging on around us. At first, many of us did not know his intentions- why a man of his status and family reputation wanted us. Some adamantly thought he believed us to be disposable to war, others that it was his right, as son of congressman Henry Laurens to lead us.”

“And you?” Alexander asked, more intrigued. “What did you think?”

“That the reputation of your family should not precede the legacy in which a man intends to leave.” He explained thoughtfully. “In the end, Lt. Col Laurens not only led us accordingly, but exceeded our expectations; he gave us respect and dignity. If he was looking for change, know that in ways, he accomplished just that.”  

The young man twists around, reaching for a wooden cane propped up against the wall of the entrance. As he does, John turns to his partner.

“Request that he calls me John.”

Alexander glanced at him questioningly for an answer as Dyer’s back was turned. John shrugged his shoulders loosely. ” We all meet the same fate, and when that day comes, our titles mean nothing.”   

Alex did so without mentioning the presence of Laurens and Dyer nodded.

“His death I didn’t experience first hand, I had been shot in the leg and was brought back. Instead, we were told from a camp de aide that he had been shot and fallen from his horse, only to bleed out against a tree. He must’ve dragged himself to it before succumbing to his wounds. However, Mr. Hamilton- “

“Alexander.”

“Alexander,” Dyer corrected, face contorting into grave misery. “As I was recovering, I heard stories of men looting from his corpse.”

The breath escaped Alexander lips, heart stopping for a second. Chills traveled down his spine as all thoughts ran dry. Laurens’ body being looted from as he bled out? By some of his own men? Was there a possibility that Laurens’ still could have been helped, had the men not been consumed by their greed?

“Wer-were they punished?” Alex asked weakly, suddenly feeling light-headed. He placed a hand on the wall, pressing a considerable amount of weight on it.

“I’m sorry.” Was all Dyer said. “No man should be treated as such, especially one of the best man I’ve had the privilege to follow.”  

Alexander swallowed thickly, nodding his head sluggishly. The dark walls around him seemed to curve inward menacingly, consuming all the space around him. He couldn’t breath, couldn’t stop his heart from pounding at his chest, desperate to escape its bony cage.

“Alexander?” John whispered quietly in concern. Despite the presence of Dyer in front of the pair, Alex looked to John with wide eyes. He couldn’t help but notice dark patches of red where the bullet must have blasted through Laurens, or his arm cuffs scuffed with green and brown stains where he dragged himself to the tree in one last attempt for survival. He couldn’t help but notice all of it, all signs of his death.

The gravity of the entire situation seemed to weigh heavily on Alex, as he stumbled back. Refusing the help of Dyer, he pushed with heavy feet to the door, opening it.

“Thank you for your service, I will send for someone to compensate you as soon as possible.” He mumbled, words slurring with each panicked breath. Ignoring Dyer’s worry, he pushed himself out the door, shutting it with a thud.

He tripped over himself as he stumbled into a secluded cut-out of buildings. Once the coast was cleared, his legs gave out and he slumped against the wall drained of any energy. “What sort of men would do unspeakable acts?” He whispered to himself.

John appeared in front, standing as he sat against a wall. “The ones that want to live. We were in battle, Alexander, there is no fairness in war. What they did… they did to survive.”

“How does a pocket watch ensure survival?” Alex snapped. “Or coins for that matter!”

“Survival isn’t strictly for the battlefield.” John stepped forward, looking down at his friend with a stern expression evident on his face. “You of all I expected to understand that.”

Alex shied away, unable to meet scrutinizing Lauren’s gaze. At some point in time, he had lost touch on his life before America. Memories of his childhood continued to prompt his choices, however, his connection with it had faded to merely a concept. He didn’t live in the situation anymore, didn’t experience what his younger self had. The mindset of: ‘do what you must do to survive’ had morphed into that which disapproved of the raw, desperation of man. He had become desensitized and disconnected to what previously was his life.   

“Get off the ground, Hamilton.” Laurens commanded in a tone much like Washington’s. He didn’t try to offer a hand, knowing full well the uselessness of it. “Pat yourself off. You can do nothing to those men now, so let it go… let it go.””

The slumped man slowly got up, refusing to pat the dirt off his once pristine attire. He wouldn’t let it go, he never let anything go. In defiance of his upbringing, Alex would still view those men as disgraceful. As a child he refused to fall to that level of action. He may have been hungry, neglected, and penniless, but even in the coldest, darkest nights to loot from a lifeless body was never once imagined.

How John could let it go, he just couldn’t understand. Had his deceased friend come to terms with his death already? Had the willpower to let go of his anger and move on? It didn’t make sense.

John could be easily angered, turning into an uncontrollable fire, unpredictable and violent. Yet he stood over Alexander, eyes no longer burning with that familiar rage, just an arcane look of weary recognition. It wasn’t in his nature to be so compliant. He fought before he settled, never neglected his opportunity at presenting his opinion, whether right or wrong.

When all else failed, John would fall back to his fiery ways; Hamilton had to believe that.  

Shooting a look at John, he receives a much softer, apologetic one then before. “We obtained what we sought out, let us return home.” John explained.

The breathing man says nothing, turning away in begrudging agreement. The sun was almost fully set, people few and far between wandering the streets consumed in a drunken state or ill intent.

They get an astounding four blocks away from William’s residence before trouble finds them passing a lively pub, lights flickering from inside a building overlooked by burly silhouettes, doubled over in laughter and chatter.

It’s a familiar and rather comforting sight that brings back fond memories of before the revolution. Of pints of Samuel Adams, naïve talks of hopes and dreams, the occasional prodding at Burr. A smile is brought to Alexander’s lips, thinking of his two other absent friends. He would do anything to be able to have a drink with them- _all of them_ \- again.

But as quickly as tides turn and storms brew, the serene illusion is shattered by a high scream, snapping Alexander out of his pleasant stupor. He shares a common alarmed look with John. Both men surprised by the feminine cry, concern carrying them in the direction of the sounds.

At the backside of the pub, two figures are grappling against each other. The smaller, darker figure squirms under the larger one’s grasp, struggling and crying out in fear. As Alexander and John approach, the figures become more distinct and detailed.

A burly man with disheveled hair and grabby hands tosses the darker lady around, spitting words and insults at her.

“Good for nothing, worthless bluegum!” The man seethes, spitting on the lady. She cries out in shock, struggling and pushing at the man. He latches on however, pressing her up against him.

He brings his free hand close to the lady’s face and a slap echoes throughout the perimeter. She crumbles to the floor, curling into a defensive position, thin hands frantically trying to cover her face.

 For a split second, the woman makes eye contact with Alexander. Tired, dark eyes meet his and instead of calling out for help, she looks back at her abuser in what looked like spiteful acceptance. Acceptance that Alexander wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t intervene and protect the lady. Acceptance that she would have to ride the beatings out, pull herself up off the ground and drag her bruised and battered form home, terrified that it might be repeated on the way. Perhaps she even thought that Alexander would join in with the physicality and take any repressed rage out on her.    

Of course, the sight sets John off immediately. A ridiculously, immoral opinion is one thing, but senseless violence to a poor lady is something Laurens can’t tolerate. In the blink of an eye, John is right beside the guy attempting to stop the injustice. An unseen hero among a crowd of unwilling cowards.

And Alexander?

Alex is frozen in place. Unlike Laurens, Alexander could actually defend her, take up action and stop the burly man. But as he stands still, the lady’s eyes become less of a concept and more of a reality. He wouldn’t do anything, he would turn a blind eye.

And for what? His image? His career? Eliza? Washington?

Was that all worth it to him, or was that just what society wanted him to believe?

Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about his image- what people thought of him. It never really mattered. And while he truly believed that about himself, something always seemed to make him follow the laws of society in the end.

A force always holding him back from what he really desired to do. Stopping him from doing things like putting Seabury in place, dueling Lee himself, stopping the man in front of him sensibly beat at an innocent lady.  

He’d stop and wait for someone like John to intervene, someone who wasn’t constrained by that force, even by the slightest like Alexander.

Through regret and self-loathing, he thought he could achieve what John did through writing. Intervene in the form of words. But while words can sway the minds of many, it didn’t sway bruised fists away from violence, and that didn’t satisfy Alexander. He couldn’t wait for John anymore.

Words weren’t enough.

Not enough to quench Alex of that twitch in his fists, that constrained rage subsiding deep within him, those years of pent up anger, that hurricane, his deadbeat father, his poor mother, Jefferson, those men looting John’s corpse- it was not enough.

He just watched as the man continuously beats at the lady. Pound after pound, on the floor, begging. He keeps at it, hitting her seemingly harder each time- hitting at what Laurens fought to stop, what he was unable to stop; he’s ruining everything John died for. The man kicks the lady- not a slave- a _lady,_ for that’s what she is, harder and harder until she can’t beg anymore just cry.

His heart rate increases, hands shaking and-

Alexander could write about this moment, do what Washington wanted him to do. But he hears John yelling, throw curses at the man as though he is a redcoat -and maybe he is- getting up in the man’s face, trying fruitless to shove the man away from the lady. And although nothing works, the attempts going straight through the man, he keeps at it; keeps trying because who he was when he was alive is no different to who he is now; a temperamental, self-sacrificing fool who believed that the world could change.

He believed in humanity’s ability to change for the better. Alexander sadly did not.

But he tries and tries, no matter how hopeless it may be.

-And perhaps that’s why, Alexander throws the first solid punch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dyer Williams is OC bc I honestly was lazy. He’s a free man (with the documents and all) bc of his wounds from the war impacting his work effort. Whatever dick that owned the plantation saw that he was no longer profitable and let him go. This probably didn’t happen irl, but y’know what, this is a fan fiction with SO MANY plot-holes, so I'mma just dig another one.   
> What I do know is that, my bb John wasn’t in Carolina during Yorktown (He actually was in the battle of Yorktown) and that yes, there were letters explaining that his corpse was looted/stolen from. Kind of morbid, but that’s what makes up history: humanity at its finest and at its lowest.   
> Also, I kind of always saw Ham as a raging ball of repressed anger.


	9. A Lonely Hill to Die On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” -Mark Twain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my jaw dislocates constantly and I don't think that's suppose to happen?
> 
> Also correct me if I'm wrong but I feel like Ham didn't beat up the British with his fists during the war. More so with his words and waving a sword around?

 

Pain explodes in his fist, traveling through the wrist as the punch connects the man. An uncanny, indescribable feeling courses through Alexander. He’s in pain but feels significantly lighter. An invisible weight holding him down, owning his heavy heart, piece by piece chipping away. He can’t help but stare at his fist like a wide-eyed fool.

The man stumbles back, holding his cheek in enraged shock, eyes burning holes into Alexander. He spits a glob of his own blood at Alex’s feet, rubbing his cheek roughly.

Trapped in a trance, Lauren’s yells of caution and the man approaching morph into a void of static going unnoticed to Alexander’s senses. It’s only after a flash of skin and pain erupting from just below his right eye that knocks him back to the present. The force sends him to the ground, scrapping his hands and elbows in the process as he hits the ground with a thud.

Now the new sight for the man’s aggression, Alexander scrambles back on his hand, adrenaline pumping as he stares up at the man.

‘ _So, this is what the lady had felt?_ ’ He managed to think right before the hard tip on the man’s boot was brought down against his ribs. He gasps desperately for air, turning over to avoid his face from being kicked, pain radiating from his body.

The man, yelling in blind rage brings his foot down on Alex repeatedly, stomping at his exposed fingers and torso with every ounce of strength he can muster.

As the pain starts to overwhelm Alex, and the regret of stepping in starts to settle in his frantic mind, hope dwindles leaving death a scary but real thought.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to die. When his mother had died, he wished to follow her, when the hurricane came and destroyed his town, he wished that it had taken his life, when the revolution came, he spent every moment making himself a target. But now? Now he didn’t want death.

He had a wife and a beautiful son to care for, a family that truly loved him, friends that surrounded him, and a dream he wanted to make a reality. He couldn’t leave that behind, not yet. He didn’t want to be like his dear Laurens, trapped between planes of existence, incomplete and ignored. He had to fight, fight for all that he wanted to live for.

A growing cry escapes his lips, blurry sight following the distance between each kick grow closer and closer to his face.  

The man’s stained boot hovers briefly over his face, using its very existence to taunt Alexander. ‘ _This is it,’_ he can’t help but think with trepidation. ‘ _This is where I finally die.’_

As the boot comes down, Alex squeezes his eyes shut bracing for impact. Jointly with the boot, the temperature drops instantly. What’s left of Alex’s air is lost as an invisible force slams into both men. It winds Alexander, but sends the other man crashing against the brick wall. Through blurry vision, Alex can see the man’s feet leave the floor, hovering inches above it in suspense.

The man’s eyes scream of undeniable fear as he is lifted off the ground by an unknown force.

A force he may not be able to see, but Alexander can.

To his utter disbelief, Laurens holds the man up against the wall, figure flickering in and out like a bright candle. Ice forms at his feet and he slams the man harshly against the wall again, eyes burning in hellish rage.

“ _You don’t get to hurt them!”_ Laurens spits, yelling directly in the man’s face. Consumed by an inescapable rage, Laurens’ temperamental nature devolves into something unrecognizable; something terrifying.

Whether due to the temperature drop or the absolute fear running through his veins, Alexander’s hairs rise. Through his peripheral vison, he sees the lady struggle to her feet, petrified eyes skipping from Alexander and the man. She knew little of what was happening. Unable to see Laurens herself, the sight of a man lifted by an unknown, invisible force must’ve had her mind and body going haywire, frantically looking for answers. In an instant, she races away, taking what is left of her mangled faith in God with her.

“ _You don’t get to do that!”_ John screams, voice deep and distorted, slamming the man against the wall with an audible crack.” _No more!”_

Alex can see trances of blood stain the brick wall where the man’s head was being smashed against growing larger and more prominent with each wave. With a new realization, Alexander scrambles urgently to his feet, collapsing on the first try.

Consumed by so much rage, John can’t see past his actions, the severity of what he’s doing.

John is going to kill the man.

 “Laurens, stop!” Alex yells out, successfully scrambling to his feet. “You’re going to kill him!”

His cry seems to make its way through John’s barrier and to his ears, as John turns to look at him. Alex’s body screams in alarm, practically begging him to run away from his friend.  

Eyes so desolate and cold that Alex can’t believe its his dear Laurens.

 _“They killed me,”_ John seethes, ice spreading closer to Alexander. Alex scrambles away from the frost, hands splayed out. _“They killed us.”_

“No, they didn’t!” Alexander pleads, pressing his palms against his chest. He ignores the tender spike of pain that erupts from his bruised torso, focusing all his energy and strength in his desperation. “He didn’t, I’m here- Laurens’ I’m right here!”

 _“It’s their fault.”_ Laurens mutters distantly. _“They killed us.”_

“Let it go,” Alex begs pleadingly, “John, let it go. No more death.”

For a moment nothing changes, but just as the ice creeps up to his feet, Alexander sees something break inside John. A vulnerability seen only in lost children, despondent and deserted.

John’s facade breaks, sorrow as a replacement of the anger he displayed seconds ago.

“No more,” Alex whispers. “Please.”

The man, almost unconscious but still breathing falls to the floor in a bundle of limbs, the ice encasing parts of him melting quickly off. The temperature rises, and the ice disappears in puddles.

John crumbles to the floor, falling on his knees, a sob escaping his lips. Tears pour down his face, eyes round like saucers seeing now the severity of his actions. The cry isn’t the same as those that Alex heard when John first appeared to him. No, these sobs were raw and low, resonating from a broken heart, consuming his entire being. A cry one would hear at the loss of innocence, or the loss of a dear loved one; a cry to be saved.

Alexander approaches John cautiously, kneeling in front of the broken apparition. His friend can barely look at him through the tears rushing down his face like a waterfall. It’s so unlike him. Alex had never seen such distressed emotions pour out of John. The sobs are mixed with barely audible apologies as John struggles, flickering in and out of view.

Alex watches quietly- tenderly- carefully- lovingly, “You don’t need to fight anymore, you can rest.”

Like an obedient soldier, John stops struggling, slowly fading peacefully into the sky.

 

* * *

   

The moon is high in the sky by the time Alexander gets back. He favors his left arms gingerly as he unlocks the door and slowly pushes it open. Waking Eliza would only cause more chaos. To see her face, it was a sight he could not bear to see.

He creeps into the house, shutting the door slowly. The house is silent, not a single creak from the floorboards, plunged into complete darkness. The only light being from the moon’s faint rays in the windows.

Just as he believes that he is home free, a light appears from their common room. Eliza enters, a disapproving scowl on her face.

“Where have you been, we’ve been worried si-“She stops at the sight of her husband. “Alexander, what have you done?” Eliza gasps in horror, rushing forward from the common room to her husband. Angelica follows a few seconds behind, stopping short at the door frame, she’s holding the candle that signaled their presence. Her expression matches her younger sister’s; however, she says nothing.

Fussing over Alex’s swollen cheek, Eliza shakes her head flustered, “How did this happen? Who did this to you?”

Alex evades his wife’s hand, clasping her wrist and gently bringing it down. “Just a man who wasn’t raised as a gentleman. I’m fine, truly Eliza.”

“You are most certainly not!” She exclaims rattled. “Why on earth were you in the conflict?”

“The man,” He breathes tiredly, unconsciously putting his weight on Eliza. “Was never taught how to treat a lady.”

From behind Angelica can’t help but smile. If there was anybody close to the counterpart of Alexander, it would be Angelica. She understood how it felt to do nothing instead of doing something. She had that anger inside of her swelling to masses when she wanted to fight. It was Angelica that understood that they could never be satisfied walking away. Eliza, unfortunately did not.

“This isn’t the war, Alexander,” Eliza exclaimed profusely. “You can’t just attack a man!”

“I couldn’t just stand there.”

His wife goes quiet for a second, a thoughtful and careful expression evident on her face. “Is this because of John? You did it because John would have? My love, he’s gone, you owe him nothing.”

Alexander wants to argue, defend John’s side, but he’s just too exhausted. His entire body aches, feet heavy and dragging like he’s Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Instead, he nods sluggishly, leaning against Eliza progressively more.

Whether she believes it’s a lost cause or not. Eliza takes notice of how much he is leaning on her for support. Her scowl melts as carefully helps Alexander remain standing. Something grave was going on with her husband, something he refused to tell her. If he continued this path, he’d surely drive himself through the dirt. She couldn’t bare to see her husband destroy himself any longer.

If he wouldn’t talk to her, he’d have to talk to someone else. Someone who was close and shared similar experiences.

Alexander had become unresponsive now, eyes locked in a far away expression. She beckons Angelica over, and together they each support a side of Alexander, helping him up the stairs and into their bedroom.

Angelica throughout the ordeal remains oddly quiet, face masked with an expressionless wall. While her wall is study and thick, Eliza has lived with her for years, understanding her habits and peeves. If she could take away anything from those childhood memories was that, whenever Angelica put up a wall, it was to repress the guilt she felt, show no vulnerability in herself. But why was she feeling guilty now? Why was her family acting so strange?

Putting Alexander to bed and wishing Angelica a goodnight, Eliza sat beside her husband, pressing a warm wet cloth carefully on his wounds and bruises.

With each wound she counted, her determination grew more and more.

She would save her family, even if it was the last thing she’d do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ham got his ass handed to him
> 
> So I have an ungodly amount of essays due all around the same time bc my profs are experts at screwing us and midterms are right around the corner... what I'm getting at is that, if you don't hear from me I'm possibly dead, buried under manifestos and academic journals. 
> 
> If only I had the stubborn determination of Ham, then I'd write nonstop


	10. Icarus and Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Atlas was permitted the opinion that he was at liberty, if he wished, to drop the Earth and creep away; but this opinion was all that he was permitted.” -Franz Kafka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short shit. I had midterms and now I'm finally on my reading week (not to mention I thought up 3 other ideas that consumed my entire being and destroyed every last ounce of work ethic I had)
> 
> So Ham is recovering from getting beat up, John has taken a ghost vaca and Herc is there to smack some sense into Ham as every parent-friend should.

 

Waking up, Alexander quickly realized he couldn’t move. The pain encasing his body too tender for even the most insignificant muscle. He groans in discomfort, shifting as little as possible and gritting through the pain.

“You fool, what have you done?” The displeased voice of Angelica rung through his ears, as he peered over his shoulder, wincing in pain. Angelica is at the foot of the bed, staring him down.

“Angelica?” He groans, “Why are you here?”

She crosses her arms, leaning her weight on one foot. “You could have died.” She protested agitated. “What was going through your mind to think what you did was smart?”

“I’m not ready to listen to your outpourings, Angelica. You did not see what happened.”

“I saw enough of the outcome to know what occurred.”

Alexander grunted, “You didn’t see John.”

His sister-in-law curses under her breath in irritation, scowling. “I am not all-knowing Alexander. I had my doubts about your sanity before, I’ll admit. Nonetheless, in situations like this, it was simple to see you failed to win a fight.”

Slowly, in a painful process, Alexander pushes up with his hands, resting himself against the crown of the bed. He lets out a groan of pain as he settles into a new position. Despite being annoyed by Alex, Angelica pulls up a stool, planting herself beside Alex with a deep frown.

“That is not what I was referring too.” He explains. “You did not see John during the brawl.”

The gears in Angelica’s head start to turn, and Alex observes as her eyes grow round in realization. Suddenly, she leans towards him in awe and fascination.

“What did he do?” She asks keenly, “Is he here now?”

Alex shakes his head. “He disappeared after the fight. Something happened in the midst of it. He was somehow able to hold the man, protecting the lady and myself from him. But…”

He trails off recollecting the memory of John’s monster-like state as he smashed the man’s head against the wall relentlessly. A shudder runs through Alex and his eyes fall to his bruised fingers. “At some point, John’s intents became clouded. Angelica… I believe he was trying to kill the man.”  

“Why would John do that?”

“Rage consume him like a trance.” Alex explained thoroughly. “He was under the impression ‘they’ had killed us? But I know little to what that may mean?”

Angelica thinks for a moment, lips drawn in thought. “Perhaps his own death? Or the end of a relationship? How was he stopped?”

“I managed to subdue him.” Alex can see in her eyes that she knows something he doesn’t, but she doesn’t mention it, earning only a frown from Alexander. He continues nonetheless. “He seemed so lost Angelica. I cannot allow him to suffer any longer.”

“I know, Alexander, I do not want him to suffer any longer as well.” She clasps his hand tenderly, taking into consideration his bruised fingers. “However, you must convince the others of that too.”

A puzzled look crosses Alex’s face as he frowns. “What do you mean?’

“You’ve been out for a couple of days.” She explains, letting go and getting up from the seat. “Eliza has been worried sick about you, so she summoned Mulligan to knock some sense back into you. He’s downstairs waiting for me to leave.”

“Hercules?” Alexander visibly pales at the thought of his motherly friend coming to punish him. He reaches for Angelica’s hand, desperate to keep her in the room. “Stay please,” He begs pleadingly. A worried Hercules is like being coddle by an angry bear; protective, but crushing you within seconds.

Angelica can see the raw fear in his eyes, and she pulls her hand out of Alexander’s grasp. There’s an evil tint in her eye as she smirks, that makes Alex believe that she enjoys his pain. In a way, Alex feels this will be punishment for worrying them.

 “Mulligan brought some wonderful dresses for Eliza and myself. I just cannot wait to try them.” She waves him goodbye cunningly, leaving the room to Alex’s demise.

 Alexander silently wishes he could disappear like John to escape the wraith of Hercules. Even without the man in the room, he could clearly imagine the disapproving frown on the older man’s face, the crossed arms that emphasized his parental image so well.

He’s so caught up in his dread and moping, that he doesn’t realize the presence of Hercules entering the room.

“Hamilton,” He hears, instantly freezing. A smile plasters itself on Alexander’s lips, superficial in all sense as his eyes meet Hercules’. The man stares Hamilton down, arms unsurprisingly crossed and stiff.

“Mulligan, how nice of you to visit.” He’s amazed his voice hasn’t broken yet, “Will you be staying long? Because I’m afraid I’ve been told by the doctor to rest as much as possible. I’ve been awake far too long for his liking, so I should hurry back to bed.”

Mulligan approaches, unaffected by Alex’s persuasion, if anything he seems even more upset.

“Your slyness can only get you so far, Hamilton.” He scolds quietly. “I’ll leave as soon as you tell me the truth.”

“The truth?”  Alex sputtered affronted at Hercules demand. “The truth being the intervention of a man harming a lady?”

The taller man crosses his arms, shooting a disapproving look at Alexander. “No,” He drawls, “Why you chose to fight. The revolution is over, we survived, why waste that and throw it away?”

“Not everyone came out of the war liberated, Mulligan.”  

“I see, so Eliza was right, this is about Laurens.”

“It’s not,” Alexander grumbled childishly, turning away.

Hercules shot a look, believing otherwise against his friend’s stubborn insistence. “A brash impulsiveness was never your hamartia, it was always Laurens’. He was impulsive and quick to anger; reckless to a fault. So why fight now, after the revolution amongst civilians?

“You have no right to speak of Laurens’ that way.”

“John wasn’t solely lost to you, Hamilton.” Mulligan explained patiently, yet sternly. “Or have you forgotten that?”   

So, wrapped up in himself, it seemed he had failed to realize the impact Laurens’ death had not only on him, but everyone in the vicinity. Alexander had never offered his presence and ears in service to his friends. Yet, here they were, once again aiding him out of his own struggles.

Alexander’s gaze slowly crept back towards his friend, eyes shameful. “My apologies Mulligan, I have withdrawn from my duties as a friend and failed to act as one.”

The bed dipped at his side as Hercules sat at his side quietly. His face had lost its former parental and stern figure, replaced with a softer, more vulnerable expression.

“Your ambitions are no deadlier then his insistence in changing the world, Hamilton, and I’m afraid that if I lose another friend so soon, I may not handle it as steadily.”

Glancing at his bruised hands, splayed purple and red, Alexander tries simply to move his fingers. The ache is present, if not residing in the background of his mind, as he tries to fold his fingers closer to his palm. Such a simple task, yet he finds himself struggling to do so; how much he’s worked? how many words written? triggers pulled? to be here, unable to even make a fist.

He wasn’t born into power and wealth as John had, was never granted the privilege of comfort until only recently. So, Alexander can’t help but dwell dubiously on why any man in John’s position would remove himself away from that luxury? As many wealthy and powerful families before, to stay compliant to lifestyle which they benefited from was the only path to choose. But against everything, John chose to fight in a revolution many lesser men could fight and aimed to take down the very system that provided his family with wealth. He worked despite the seat always present, a witness to those that did not have the liberty he had.

And in the end, what did that make him?

Looking back to his friend, Alex can’t help but seem lost. “Was Laurens’ a fool or a good man?”

There’s a painstaking anticipation in Hercules’s response, yet the man seems to take his time. His brows furrow, remaining low with a prolonged thoughtful expression. Finally, Hercules looked to Alexander, “He was a young man of status and wanted to change what he saw had become of the country, in many ways like Atlas; carrying the world by choice.”

“Atlas had no choice, he was obligated to bear the weight.” Alex argued, remembering the story differently.

“No action is ever without a choice, Hamilton.” Hercules explained. “If men had no control over their fate, where would you be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought of John as Atlas. The story that I know of the titan was that he chose to carry the world on his shoulders, not was forced to by Zeus. While I've heard both interpretations of the myth, I like to think that humanity was worth being held up willingly, despite the weight. Ham sees the myth as Atlas was forced to carry the weight, stating that he had no choice. What Herc argues is that there is always a choice, whether apparent or not. I like to think of it also as if John had made his choice while in his last battle in regards to his future and Ham.


	11. A Glorious Lie for a Glorious Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori” -It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANother fun fact," Dulce et decorum [...]" is actually the quote on John's tombstone. At the same time of learning about this, in one of my English courses my prof made us analyze a WW1 poem from Owen Wilfred about this Latin phrase. IN the poem he talks about how that saying is an old lie, bc there is nothing glorious about war and about the things he witnessed during it. 
> 
> So anyways, this is John's POV

Since he was just a boy, people had told John consistently that death was a way to finally rest, given the circumstances, he found it increasingly difficult to continue believing that. For one, he was dead but certainly not resting happily. Blood did not flow through him, walls became merely a quicker passage to another room, and no one could see or hear him but Alexander. If he were to be quite honest, despite the company of Alexander, it was more so a torturous hell then a paradise.  

Maybe that’s exactly what it was, hell. A punishment of his unconventional, unholy admiration, tied to his beloved friend whose presence brought both a smile to his lips and an ache in his still heart. The punishment of being with someone he may never have, despite the mere steps that divided them.

Something had taken a hold of him, some freezing sensation of raw emotion, laced within it a resentment and rage he never knew he carried. He remembers watching as the lady was beat senselessly, remembered as his hands went helplessly through the man trying to pull him away from her, he remembers Alexander punching the man, Alexander falling to the ground, Alexander bloody and bruised- Alexander.

And then that uncontrollable, freezing sensation overwhelmed every thought and reason he had left in him. Dazed like a gun going off right at the ear, every input of detail becomes a pained blur, blinding and stunning. It feels like only seconds, but as the pain settles and the chills lessen, the man is at his feet, laying battered and unconscious, Alexander not to far away staring with eyes round in trepidation and desperation at John.

He recalls falling to his knees, helplessly and suddenly exhausted, listening to Alexander’s soft pleads for rest. The last thing he recalls, is thinking how nice it would be to rests.  

And by the pity and mercy of God, for only a moment, he is given that.

The dark alleyway surrounding him washes away like grim, Alexander and the limp man fading away like fog on glasses. Pillars raise from the ground forming walls of drapery and high windows, the concrete floor building itself brick by brick into marble stones.

John only watches dumbfounded as silhouettes of fog grow more defined as they dance around the room to the rhythm of soft music. Finely dressed people appear around him, some carrying familiar faces that always brought comfort to John. Looking down, John can’t help but be surprised with his similar attire and wine glass clasped in his hand.

Lifting the glass to his face, he stared at the cup enraptured. He could feel the smooth surface under his fingers, the subtle weight of the glass pushing down at his hand, and the content of the glass moving as he shifted. He hadn’t felt the touch of anything in so long, it felt so foreign.

“What is this?” He whispered in disbelief. Was it another sick punishment? The beginning of a downward spiral into insanity?

“Laurens!” A familiar French voice called from behind. He lowered the glass, turning towards the voice, breath catching in his throat at the sight of Lafayette. His friend was gesturing John over, eyes meeting his own, not staring painful through him.  

Through his disbelief, John found himself going over to Lafayette, legs threatening to collapse from the panic.

The Frenchman throws an arm over John’s shoulder, pulling him in while protecting the cups in both their hands. John looks up at Lafayette, noticeably baffled.

“You can see me?” He whispered.

Lafayette let out of a short laugh, waving his half empty glass around, “Why of course, I haven’t had that much to drink yet, mon ami!”

“Laf,” John started slowly, watching warily the groups of people dancing. There was something familiar about this, something that was on the tip of his tongue, prodding insistently at him.  “Where are we?”

 His friend glances at him with a raise brow, looking over John with a critical gaze, before landing on his cup. Putting his own down on a nearby table, Lafayette takes John’s cup.

“It is you who have drank too much.” He stated bluntly.

“Humor the poor drunkard, sir.” John explained. “Where are we?”

Begrudgingly, the Frenchman open his mouth to explain, however quickly being cut off by another familiar voice approaching. One that always sent shivers down John’s back in delight.

“John!” Alexander called out, “Why must you be so hard to find?”

Looking over his shoulder, John’s heart frozen, eyes widening at the sight of his beloved friend.  

Alexander was dressed in one of John’s suits since he had no formal attire of his own, hair tied back into a nostalgic tail John hadn’t seen since the end of the revolution. Behind Alexander was Burr, watching as women walked by with a suggestive expression, seemingly with no concern of being unfaithful to his wife.

Quickly the facts gathered, forming a very vivid memory of one of the worst days in his short life. He looked back at Alexander, eyes drowning in his friend’s youthful expression.

“It’s the Winter’s Ball!” Alexander exclaimed happily, taking the words right out of John’s mouth. “Smile my dear Laurens!”

This wasn’t God’s gift of rest, this was another form of torture.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You look like you’ve seen Lucifer, do I really look that devilish?” Alexander joked, winking. John could feel the heat rise in his face, instinctively looking away to avoid eyes contact.

To his relief, Lafayette spoke up. “It appears John has already consumed too much, per usual.”

“All the better when socializing with the ladies.” Burr pointed out smugly. The Frenchman shot a glare at the man, shaking his head.

“John is the heir to his father’s reputation and work. He mustn’t appear a drunken fool amongst these people, especially to a potential future wife.”

John’s face grew warm again as he wiggled out of the Frenchman’s grasp. “I appreciate your concerns; however, I am not drunk nor do I wish to find a wife tonight.” He started to shift, backing away from his friends, grabbing his wine glass, he raises it in a salute. “If you need me, I’ll be topping my refreshment up.”

He ignored the comments, making his way towards a counter at the side of the room with a collection of drinks. Taking a new cup, with the addition of another just in case, he takes a sip of one downing it quickly. He was in some hellish dreamscape reliving his worst memory, unable to contact his own Alexander. The best thing he could do at the moment was numb his scrambled mind till the day’s end.

“I would watch how much you drink, sir. You’ll do something foolish.”

John groans under his breath, slowly turning to the new voice. “The only foolish act I did was give my love to someone I may never hav… Peggy?” He stops his mumble abruptly at the sight of Peggy, a lady he would have loved if he had not been sinner.

The Schuyler’s youngest blinked innocently, tilting her head in confusion.

“I’m sorry, but have we met before?” She asked.

John pushed down his surprised expression, catching his tongue before he could say anything regretful. “No, I’m afraid that we haven’t.”

“Ah, well then I am Margaret Schuyler, but you may call me Peggy.”

“John Laurens.” He replied politely.

“Henry Laurens’ son?” She asked, giving a quizzical look. An expression that usually presented an offset, disagreeing opinion on his family. John nodded, gritting his teeth in spite, at the mention of his father. “So, you love someone you can never have?”

His eyes widened in surprise, hating the impulsive nature of his tongue. Peggy motions over to Alexander, who to his grief, is being led arm in arm towards Eliza by Angelica.

“You love one of my sisters?” Peggy asks, and John’s face grows bright, as he shakes his head quickly in denial.  

“No, I do not fancy either of them.”

Peggy looks back to the silent exchange of her sisters and Alexander, gaze searching the three critically. She stays glued to the sight quietly, not uttering a single word or relying her thoughts through her facial expression. Her eyes conceal any emotion and it causes John to shift anxiously.

“I see.’ She finally says. Grabbing John’s hand, she tugs at it insistently with a childish pout. “Let’s go outside.”

Without waiting for an answer from John, Peggy starts to drag him towards one of the many exits and he complies helplessly.  

Leaving the Ball, he can’t help but glance over his shoulder, watching feebly as Alexander smoothly bent down, kissing Eliza’s hand. His heart clenches in pain, watching as his love slipped hopelessly through his fingers.

The cold night chill snaps him back to the dreamscape’s reality, instinctively tightening his coat against his waist. Peggy walked a few steps ahead, unfazed by the freezing temperature, wearing the lesser out of the two. John could only marvel in awe at the youngest sister’s brute nature.

“It’s a shame to love a man you can never have.” Peggy mumbled sidelong, face masked by her thick hair. John froze in alarm, his breath catching in fear at Peggy’s comment.

“Pardon me?” He sputtered weakly. Peggy turned to him, face expressionless and indecipherable.

“You love a man you cannot have.” She repeated forcefully.

“You’re mistaken, that’s a sin against the law and God.”

Peggy didn’t seem to believe his weak statement, eyeing him with skepticism. “Tell me then, what is the name of the lady you love?”

“Her name? It is… ah...” At a loss of words and an empty mind, John’s lips formed a crooked frown, helplessly to the lady’s scrutiny.

“You’re a sodomite.” She declared, the words seared themselves painfully into his conscience, echoing tauntingly the consequences that came with such title. This was not how he remembered the Winter Ball going, this confrontation with Peggy had never occurred.

“The accusation you make have no weight to them.” John argued harshly. “They are slander and simply wrong.”

“Wrong that you love someone more than yourself?” Peggy whispered sadly. “Is that what I am wrong about?’

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know more then you may think.” Peggy echoed arcanely, her eyes growing distant and staring right through John. They lost their comforting light, fading into a dark nothingness. A shiver ran across his skin, hairs rising at the unsettling shift in Peggy’s personality. He had to remember that this was a dream, that he was not talking to the real Peggy. But it looked so much like her, every inch of detail a perfect representation of Peggy; similar to all his other friends close by. It was impossible for him to completely repress his emotions under rational thought.

“I beg your pardon?” He sputtered, taking a cautious step back.  

“The answers he is looking for will end with me, Laurens.” She explained, killing the distance he had tried to put in between them. She came right up to him, lifting her hand and pressing the backside of it lightly against his cheek. “What will you say then?”

In an abrupt drop in temperature and the pull of his gut, like water, his surroundings slowly start to wash away, blending together in a mixture of dull colours and vibrant yellow blots of Peggy’s dress. The soft touch against his cheek faded, leaving the painful truth, that it may have been the last thing he ever felt, embedded in his skin.

He yells in alarm, hands shooting out to take hold of the fading mirage of his friend. Yet she slips through his fingers like mist, blowing away in the wind with only a faint smile on her lips.

With a final tug, an invisible force pulls John down, sweeping him off his feet into an endless tumble through the colored blurs of what was once his surroundings.

He’s not falling for long, as soon thick trees shoot out from nowhere, rising to great heights above in his head. Thrown against the grassy floor, John rolled over onto his stomach, consumed with vertigo, gaping at the taste of metal in his mouth.

A soft breeze blew through him, as he recovered slowly, painstakingly waiting for the dizziness to vanish and the taste in his mouth to go away. Before he can do anymore, two sets of feet walk in front of him, stopping with their heels pointed towards John. One set is much wider than the others, and in bland formal shoe wear. The other, slimmer in width, carried on high heels is lightly decorated around the soles with brown and green stains from the grassy surface muddling its quality.

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” A voice coming from the slimmer set of feet said. “The war had ended, so why did they keep fighting? Why did someone take him from us?”

John knew that voice, he loved it dearly and hated hearing it so upset and confused. It was his younger sister, Martha, stood small beside his father, cupping her hands tightly and staring at a stone object in front.

Pushing himself up, and hovering around his family with uncertainty, he spoke.  “Father? Martha?” He said gingerly. “Can you hear me?”

They don’t answer, and John can only assume that he is once again trapped between two planes of existence.

His father doesn’t make any move to comfort his daughter, only remaining glued to the object in front. “War is a confusing thing, Martha. It is impossible to know what a man may be thinking when he kills another.”

“And what about John? His final thoughts? His fears? Is that not noteworthy enough for his killer to consider?” Martha argued, red in the face, eyes glossy. “Why play God when we are only just men.”

Finally, Henry pried his hard eyes away from the stone, to glare at his daughter. “A _woman_ who only understands her duties at home has no say in the matters of war or its worth. Stop this nonsense before it infuriates me more.”

If she was anyone else, they would have stopped their ramble and listened to Henry obediently, however that was never a trait Martha possessed, instead she looked her father directly in the eyes with a hard gaze. “We may know little of war, but what of love? Have we no say in the ones that we loved?”

“ _Martha_.” His father scolded sternly, finally silencing her. They went back to sullenly staring at the stone object in front, which only peeked John’s curiosity. He moved around his family, shifting his gaze downward and straight ahead.

In a twist of the heart, he stared at a small gravestone engraved with his own name. It was simple and modest, freshly cut and still sharp at the edges. Underneath his name was his birth and death date, coming as a mocking reminder of every wish he will never accomplish.

Following the engravings down, his eyes freeze on a short idiom.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” He read out loud feebly.

_It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country._

John turned to his father furious, eyes blown wide in disbelief. He didn’t die for his country, didn’t bleed out covered in mud and debris for a pointless patriotic ideal. He made a choice, a decision that would be his last, and it wasn’t for his country.

War was not something to be proud of. While it may have been necessary, there was no pride in doing so, only a reluctance and hope for a better future. A vow to sacrifice oneself for their loved ones, not for martyrdom. There was no glory in dying for a country, nothing sweet or proper about it; that was an old lie. A lie created by those who never aimed at another person before, those who never saw blood seep out a man faster then rain, those that had everything handed to them their entire life. Those like his father.

“You ignorant man,” John growled, closing the distance between his father in a single step. He stared Henry down, having an inch or so on him. Yet his father did not react, did not notice his son’s infuriated and intimidating stance directly in front of him. To his knowledge, that son was buried seven feet under. “There is no glory in war! Only love may have that!”

“We must remember he is with God now, resting eternally.” His father explained, cooling down after the brief tension with Martha. “A fair reward for defending one’s country.”

“There is no ‘fair reward’ for passing.” John huffed enraged. “I die… and what for? You? Your pride? Your independence? No, I died for him, not you!”  

They gazed right through him, staring at the grave with reserved expressions. Ignored and furious, John did the only thing a human being would do.

He screamed.

_Sweet and fitting_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is long? I didn't want to split the chapter into two parts. There was no proper place to have cut it off and I felt like it should come as one big chapter. 
> 
> Also I'm in crunch period now in uni so be kind :)


	12. Unspoken in the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've always believed that if you are precise in your thoughts, it's not the lines you say that are important - it's what exists between the lines. What I'm compelled by most is that transparency of thought, what is left unspoken." Vera Farmiga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't believe in God, but I figured back then given the people that are in this fic, are probably catholic or believe in God in some sort of way.

While Alexander may never admit it out loud, the silence from the lack of John’s presence is deafening. He finds himself intentionally seeking out noise in others, something he’s never done before. When work has ended, and he has finished writing, he spends time with Eliza and Phillip, recounting their day and watching his son grow. It’s pleasant yet terrifying, and he assumes it is because this would be his life without John Laurens. What would be his morning, afternoon and evening when John is gone; and as much as he loves his family, he just isn’t ready for that yet.

He keeps telling himself he will only be satisfied if John is.  

But as the days go by and the bruises disappear, the thought seems less convincing.

“Alexander,” A voice said weakly from behind. He freezes promptly, hair rising on his arms in anticipation. A realization of ache crosses his body as he realizes just how much he missed that honied, southern drawl.

Alexander turned star-struck, his breath sucked in sharply. His dearest friend stands in front of a window, figure glowing from the sun’s rays like a heavenly apparition sent down to speak the word of God.   

“Laurens,” He sighed, the month-long knot in his back relaxing instantly. “You’ve returned.”

His friend nods, but he doesn’t seem too relived about it. His expression is conflicted, joyous to be reacquainted with his dear friend but pained, as if Alexander’s presence was the root of the suffering.

“Are you alright?” Alexander asks, riddled with concern. Finally meeting his eyes, John looks lost, unable to ground himself in reality and focus.

“I’m well, if not a tad bit daze. My sense of balance has been muddled it appears.”

Alexander stops a foot away from John, carrying a genuine smile with him. “You are in my company now, so it will all be better.”

To Alexander’s surprise, John reacts indifferently to his comment, turning away to peer out the window.

“The leaves have fallen,” He points out sidelong. “How long have I been gone?”

 “A month merely.”

John looks to his faint hands, “It felt no more than a day.”

There’s a break in silence and a faint nudge of curiosity grows stronger the longer Alexander avoids the question. He shifts in place, taking a precautious step forward and tilting his head to look at John. “Where were you?” Alexander asked tenderly.

There’s a hesitant pause, as though John is thinking of what to say- what to reveal to Alexander. “In South Carolina, at my grave.”

Alexander’s eyes go wide, and he reaches out to grab John’s wrist for support instinctively. Like a fool, he fails to remember the physical limitations between the two, and his fingers slip through John’s wrist.

John recoils back, shivering briefly at the passing through his wrist. He stares at Alexander, face pulled in discomfort and anguish, rubbing his wrist gingerly.

“Your touch does not care the same pleasure as it did before Alexander.” John comments soberly, falling quiet. “I wish that it did.”

“You know that I will stay by your side always, my presence will make up for the comfort I cannot give you.”

John shakes his head, prying himself away from the window and making his way towards the other side of the room, only to stop in front of a small painted portrait of the Hamilton family. Alexander stays in place, watching John’s back as it hunches and falls just as quick.

“I have realized something in my time away,” John explains hoarsely, refusing to turn and look at his partner. “I desire to feel the smoothness of glass, the ground at my feet, the warmth of an arm over my shoulder. How easy we take for granted the things we are born with, only to become nothing more than a beggar when they are taken away.

He looks over his shoulder, and Alex’s breath escapes his lips. The apparition’s pupils are blown wide, filled with misery and a desperation for touch. This was a man that would give all he had for even the simplest, minute of tangibility.

“Have I done so horribly in life that the Lord refuses such a meek request?” He whispered.

Alexander shook his head, “You have done more than many, the world is forever in your debt.”

“Then it is who I am that has condemned me.”

A frown appeared on Alexander’s lips in confusion at John’s accusation. Why would John be under the assumption that it was his very being and not his worldly actions that was the cause for his circumstance. Nonetheless, Alexander pushes the confusion aside, instead settling on attempting to sooth his friend.

“You are neither in Heaven or Hell, Laurens. Perhaps it is a good thing that you remain in this world, rather than leaving all that you know behind.” The words, ‘ _leave me behind’_ remain wedged in the corner of his mind, unspoken but desiring to be heard.

“I have seen both Heaven and Hell even before I was buried beneath the ground. No… this is a Purgatory of sorts.”

The pit of despair John is digging only seems to be growing by the minute, and Alexander wishes to stop his beloved friend’s pain.

“Enough of this,” He says loudly, however not too loud for Eliza to hear downstairs. “Let us not drown in the sorrows for the past, we are not philosophers. Statesmen work towards a new day.” He reaches into his pocket, taking out a small letter, opening the envelope while avoiding the contents inside the letter. Placing it on the side table fully opened, he gestures to John to approach it.

“Angelica wrote this before she left for London and requested that I do not look at it. The letter is for only you.”

John’s brows rise, and he stares at Alexander with a dumbfound surprised look. “For me?”

Alex nods, “Yes, I had to keep it on my person for a month to avoid it falling in the hands of Eliza or Philip.”

John’s lips part, forming an O and he nods wordlessly, peering closer at the letter like it is the beloved Declaration of Independence. Alexander takes a step back, putting his hands behind his back.

“I’ll give you space to read it.” He explains, taking his leave and walking out the room.

Waiting a couple of seconds to ensure that Alexander does not poke his head in curiously without John noticing, he kneels beside the side table, staring at the neat handwriting of Angelica. Why she had only wanted John to see the letter was a mystery he may never solve, but nonetheless, it was humbling to know that she still cared for him, even after death.

 _‘Dear John,_ ’ It wrote.  

_While it has been a fortnight in the time of writing this, and you are still someplace neither Alexander nor I know of, I wish for your return. The days before my departure for London grows close, and I worry for Alexander. He may claim he is a man of solitude and does not need the aid of others around, but we all know that to be false, and with my departure I fear that he may need you more than you may need him. A letter such as this may be the only communication you can properly feel whole with; however, I must cut the pleasantries and confess. We carry the same burdens of love, the same gaze that always finds it way to Alexander. I may not see you the way our Alexander does, but do not be fooled, I see you. The pain you silently endured before death, and the pain you still carry now, knowing that what you love may never be yours. I know you may think lesser of yourself, going against God and the sublime, but know that in the time of your death, none but Alexander loved you more. To love another is not a sin, but the greatest sacrifice one can make. One day I will see you as Alexander does and together we can learn to let go of the burden we share. However, for now, I ask that you push away your fears, the fears that have dictated your life since the moment you learned of love and tell him. Do what I could never do, for I feel it may free you. Let go of Alexander, even if only momentarily and leave us behind; we will join you someday, I promise you._

_Sincerely, Angelica_

Slowly, John stood up, wide eyes still glued to the letter resting on the table. He let out a shaky exhale he wasn’t aware he was holding back and ran his fingers through his hair. Not only had Angelica known, but she had shared the same inflation as he did for Alexander. She knew, and she was okay with it- she saw him.

Angelica, in a genuine intent was pleading with John to tell Alexander the truth. She believed that if he did, he would escape this invisible torture and go to someplace better.

He wanted too, he wished he could confess to Alexander, but he was terrified. Angelica’s reaction was the uncommon, the lucky shot in the dark. But what of Alexander? There was no reassurance that he wouldn’t react the same as the majority, vilify him, shun him, call him a sodomite and damn him to Hell. If he confessed he could lose Alexander forever, no matter what Angelica said.

Taking another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and settling down, John turned around, speaking up. “Alexander, you can come in.”

His friend entered the room seconds later, quiet and respectful.

“How was the letter?” He asked hesitantly.

John could tell him, tell him at this moment in time and be released from all the pain and he had suffered throughout his life. Yet as he stared at his closest friend, the fear took hold, suffocating him from the inside out. He couldn’t. He couldn’t risk losing all that he loved.

“It was simply a farewell.” John said plainly, pushing down the ache that resided in his chest. “She requested that you burn the letter without having read it.”

“Unsurprising of Angelica. She was always considerate with her words.” Alexander explained, and John’s heart ached once more, only not for himself, but for her.

So that’s how it went. Alexander took the letter blindly, John ensuring that he did not look at the content of it and brought it to the fireplace. Carefully, Alexander dropped it into the fire, edges blackening and curling inwards.

John watched silently as the letter grew smaller and unreadable, devoured by the large flames, finally turning into nothing more than white ash.

Words of both parties left unspoken, with only the crackles of flames and the occasion pop of air in the logs heard.

That’s just how it was, the most important sounds, the most important words left ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a break from the angst and be a little happier I think


	13. A Say in Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He smelled the garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so beautiful." ... Yes, he thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important.” ― Mario Puzo, The Godfather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, its been awhile. My bad. Life really doesn't wait up for you. Anyways, this chapter is a decent length and I tried to make it a little lighter with some humor bc this entire fic has been hella sad.

Alexander is writing in his office study as he would at that hour, drafting and revising documents and systems. The day had overall been quiet, he had only gotten into one feud with Jefferson that day and John was off wandering the building, giving him some space to work.

It wasn’t until the door crashing open and Alexander practically falling out of his seat in surprise, did that all change.

The man himself, Jefferson of all people stands at the entrance of the door, staring Hamilton down with an expression he isn’t quite sure is happiness or absolute hatred. Nonetheless, Alexander slowly got up eyeing the much taller man with instant suspicion. Jefferson loved to scheme and taunt Alexander, whatever he had planned was going to ruin his perfectly quiet day.

“Jefferson?” He questions, looking the suavely dressed man up and down. “Do you need something?”

The questionable expression on Jefferson’s face fades, replacing it with an oddly sincere smile that went against everything Jefferson was. So foreign and out of character, Alexander shivered in horror at the sight.

“Alexander,” Jefferson breathes in fascination and joy. He starts to approach as Alexander shies away cautiously, hands raising in protection. Jefferson never called him by his first name, let alone was ever happy in his presence. Perhaps he had finally lost his sanity, after all.

“Jefferso-“He’s cut off as the taller man grabs him rather forcefully, pulling him into a tight, unsuspecting embrace.

Frozen in utter confusion, face pressed against the other man’s chest, Jefferson seemed to thrive in the connection between the two, burying his face in Alexander’s hair contently. Alexander squirmed in discomfort, struggling to get out of his enemy’s embrace. Jefferson only held on tighter.

“Spare me this moment, Alexander.” Jefferson hums through his hair. “I haven’t held another in so long.”

_What?_

“Pardon?”

For the first time in his life, Alexander does not know what to do or say for that matter, he just gaps silently eyes wide in disbelief.

It seems Alexander is not the only one in disbelief, as Washington appears at the entrance just as the pair pull apart from the embrace. The president’s brows are high, staring at the Secretary of Treasury and the State with confusion. Alexander jumps away from Jefferson, putting as much distance as possible from the two.

“Have you two finally settled your differences…?” Washington asks slowly.

The question doesn’t get answered, as to both Alexander and Washington’s surprise, Jefferson straightens out instantly, feet together, head held high and salutes?

“General Washington!” Jefferson exclaims in a tone similar to addressing a superior in the military. He relaxes out of his salute, getting closer to the startled president with his hand extended. “If I may, I would like to congratulate you on the victory against the British, we would have suffocated under the King’s army if it weren’t for your leadership.”

Something clicks inside Hamilton, as the pieces come together: Jefferson’s out of character personality, his embrace, the odd comment, the salute. It is almost as though he is not himself at that moment, that he is someone else… someone that worked with Washington in the military.

Alexander’s eyes widen in realization and almost chokes on air at the revelation.

_It’s John._

Washington stares at the extended hand, taking it slowly, “Thank you, Jefferson?”

John visibly brightened at the connect, shooting a wide smile. “It will always be a honor to have worked alongside you in the wa-“

Lunging for Jefferson, Alex grabs him by the collar and pulls him away from the president. He presses down on the taller man’s shoulder, causing Jefferson to wince, instantly shutting up.

Alex looked to Washington with an innocent smile, “I fear Jefferson may be coming down with something. Would it be alright if I took him somewhere to rest?”

Washington stared at the two for a second, scanning them with precise eyes. Alex could feel his heart pounding in his chest terrified. To his relief, Washington only nodded in approval. “Be quick.” He said, turning on his heel and leaving; only not without glancing back with a brow raised.

Once the president was out of sight, Alex shut the door and turned to Jefferson- or should he say John?

“Laurens?” He sputtered, keeping his voice low. John is at his desk touching the papers slowly and carefully, marveling in the solid feel of everything. “What have you done to Jefferson?”

John perks up noticeably at his name being called, “Nothing, I was wandering the halls as Jefferson passed through me. However, the passing did not occur as usual.”

A thought runs through Alex’s head, unsettling but also a little satisfying.

“Have you killed him?”

John thinks for a moment, fingers unconsciously running across quite literally everything on Alexander’s desk. “I don’t know.”

Alexander frowns in mild disappointment and looks John up and down with a mildly disgruntled scan. “Are you stuck like this?”

“I don’t know,” John admits again before his brow rises in thought. “Is this uncomfortable for you?”

“No,” Alexander looks away, crossing his arms. “You’re just…”

“Jefferson?” John muses with the voice of his rival to creep him out. He walks up to Alexander, a devious grin on his temporary face as he looks at the shorter man. The frown on Alex deepens.

“No.” Alexander asserts stubbornly. “However, as much I despise Jefferson, I am certain that you have no former experience as Secretary of State, John.”  

At the mention of partly running the country, John’s face pales in realization. He takes a quill from Alexander’s desk and fidgets with it unknowingly. “If I have killed him, I will reassign from his position.”

“Let us hope that is not what it comes too.” Alexander states, grabbing his coat jacket from behind John and putting it on hastily. “Put my quill down, we will be heading home now.”

As if only noticing the quill in his hand, John sets it down as though it were glass, treating it like a precious gem.

They leave the building quickly without being seen by anyone. The trip home takes longer than expected as John finds the need to drag his hand along any solid object that he has yet to feel, taking in the surface as if to memorize the very feel.

Once at the entrance of his home, Alexander unlocks the door and looks back to guide Laurens in. Only however, John is neither beside him nor in front, but at the bottom of the steps, crouched down and examining the individual blades of grass with such rigor and intensity. He drags a digit down the blade, before carefully plucking the single blade from the soil.

 “Laurens,” Alexander hissed sternly, snapping John’s attention back to him. “Act as Jefferson would and remove yourself from the grass.”

John pockets the single piece of grass and gets up following Alexander into the home. Before he is able to call out of his wife’s name, Eliza appears coming out of a room, their maid in tow, face knotted in surprise.

“Alexander, you’re home so soon?”

“Yes, and I have brought company if you don’t mind.” He gestures behind him as though to reveal John, however by the time he does, John is already in front of Eliza, bowing and swiftly pulling her into an unorthodox embrace. The lady appears frazzled, hands awkwardly pressed against her sides and frozen in confusion.

“Mr. Jefferson?”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have desired to speak with you for some time now.” John hums happily.

A brow raises on Eliza’s face as she is confused as to what Jefferson meant. They had met before, this was not the first meeting between the two. Yet Jefferson was acting as though, not only was it their first-time meeting, but that they were old friends.

Alexander can see her confusion grow, and he quickly steps in to prevent further disaster.

“I believe what Jefferson meant was that, you two have never met informally, only ever at balls.” He reaches over pinching the back of John’s waistcoat, yanking it persistently and tearing John away from Eliza. However, John is over the moon in delight to fully understand the context of the situation.

“Your handmaid has done quite a wonderful job in caring for Phillip. You have placed him in most excellent and trusted care.” John explains, and Alexander wishes he had a cloth to gag John with.

Eliza blinks dumbfounded, “Thank you?” She says slowly, eyeing John in suspicion. “Alexander, may I speak with you in the other room?”

The look she gives him tells him he doesn’t have a choice otherwise, so he nods and looks to John. “Stay seated.” He commanded, gesturing towards the chairs in the room beside them. He looks to the maid and nods towards John. “Will you?”

The maid nods, guiding John into the other room. As the pair leaves the room, Alexander can hear part of the conversation John had instantly started with the maid.

“Miss Dolly, I commend you on your dedication to the Hamilton family. Your work most notably in the mornings is efficient and well done.”

“You know my name?” The poor maid sputtered in disbelief.

Eliza hurries Alexander into another room, brows furrowed and troubled, gripping her husband’s wrist like she might tear it off.

“Alexander, why is Thomas Jefferson in our home. You despise the man and yet here you are offering him our walls, why is that?” She hissed. “He has done no good for this family, only wishing to ruin your name.”

He takes hold of bother shoulders, nodding quickly in agreement. “Absolutely, but we must turn the other cheek and love thy neighbour.”

It’s the first excuse he can make up in such short notice, and Eliza sees right through him. “When have you ever followed scripture?” She questioned, throwing up her hands incredulity.

“Since I was graced with your heavenly presence.”

“Your flattery will get you nowhere Alexan-“

A loud bang comes from the other room snatching the attention away from Alex. The couple look to the sound as the maid quickly appears from the room, frazzled. “My apologies sir and Madame, but I’m afraid Mr. Jefferson has fallen ill, he’s delirious and has walked into a wall.” She exclaimed frazzled.    

Alexander lets go of Eliza, giving her a reassuring smile and thanking the maid. “You may go Dolly, I will deal with Jefferson.” He spares a glance at Eliza. “Do not worry, he will be gone by midnight.”

Ushering John away from the ladies and up the stairs, he guides John into his study, promptly shutting the door behind them.

Moving John to his desk chair, he sits him down and crosses his arms with authority. “Do not leave this room unless I say otherwise.”

Morbidly delighted by the pain aching in his head from walking into a wall, John rubs his forehead sorely, disregarding all that Alexander tells him. He doesn’t care about what Alexander has to say, his thoughts have been encapsulated by all that has happened. He can talk to people again, not just Alexander. The physical sensation of touch is once again at his fingertips, and quite addicting if he was being honest. While it was not his own body that was granted these amenities, he still basks in the experience as if it were solely his own.

He could do quite honestly anything he put his mind too, from the simplest of tasks to the most complex and effortful. He could do it all, because he had a body to do it. However, as he sat, consumed in thought and watching as Alexander’s mouth moved up and down, he understood that this miracle may unfortunately be only temporary. Time was not an unlimited construct, it was indifferent to the world and its people and could take away this miracle he was granted whenever.

No, in a sober realization, John knew that he had to act as though every minute was his last… again. He couldn’t waste what he had left in time on silly meaningless desires.

“Alexander,” John spoke up, cutting his dear friend’s babbling off. Alexander fell silent quickly, arms uncrossing and falling to his sides.

“Yes?”

“I promise to not leave the study, only if you may allow me to use your writing utensils and parchment.”

Alexander blinked dumbfounded, surprised at John’s willingness to agree. “Is that all?”

“And, if I may, some time alone,” John continued.

“What for?”

Looking to the oak desk, his eyes wandered from the quill to the scattered individual ink blots littered around the table. Alexander always wrote as though he was running out of time. He wrote what he believed in and fought for, defining his character in countless papers, to the point where a person could know Alexander without even meeting the man.

John didn’t have any papers to define his character. Nobody would know who he really was outside of the revolution and his father’s letters. Only those closest to him had the slightest clue, and even then, there was so much left unspoken.

“Laurens, what for?” Alexander repeated calmly.

John looked up at his friend soberly. “Those that I have left behind, I have left in the dark. They deserve closure; to know that I lived my brief life contently thanks to them.”

“Who will the letters be too?”

John shifted his gaze away, folding his hands in his lap. He wouldn’t write to just anyone, time was limited, and every letter had to be worth the minutes spent scribing it. His words had to be the physical manifestation of his thoughts and emotions, not just some meaningless scribbles forced upon by clichés and formal structure.

He looked back at Alexander with resigned eyes. It was inevitable, he had to grin and bear the weight, knowing that if every letter had to be worth the time spent, then Alexander’s letter would be the most revealing and significant. No matter how hard he’d try to avoid it, his letter to Alexander would ultimately be a dichotomy of life and death; a sweet declaration of love and a bitter farewell intertwined.

“I suppose to those I love and loved well.”

Alexander nodded solemnly, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

 


	14. All That Is Left To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can be a king or a street sweeper, but everyone dances with the Grim Reaper." - Robert Alton Harris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well shit, I've been hella busy. Managing university, working, my social life, and my mental health has NOT been easy. 
> 
> Anyways IM SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU SUFFER 
> 
> ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT

“He hasn’t left your study in hours,” Eliza observed the closed door thoughtfully. She turned to her husband, eyes instantly hardening. “Have you killed him?”

Alexander frowned disapprovingly. “Have faith in my goodwill, Eliza.”

His wife still did not look impressed, shooting a sour smirk at him, “Only when you start respecting your co-workers.”

“I will do so when they prove to me they are worthy.” He protested boyishly. She sighed, turning away in knowing defeat. It was an impossible feat to convince Alexander otherwise. He was a stubborn man at heart, only able to see what was directly in front of him, and not the hundreds of opposing opinions around.

She waved him off dismissively, taking her leave. “My sister will be here soon, if Mr. Jefferson could be out by the time she arrives it would be most appreciated.”  

Watching as she left, disappearing around a corner, Alexander turned to the study door, knocking carefully on it.

“Thomas,” He said out loud before dropping his voice to a volume only Laurens and himself could hear. “Laurens, may I come in?”

There was an unnerving silence from the other end, so he knocked again, giving an advanced warning to Laurens that he was going to enter.

The first thing he noticed upon walking in was the slumped over figure of Jefferson.

He was laying face down against Alexander’s desk, chest rising slowly up and down to the rhythm of his breathing, arms splayed over around a dozen or so closed and stamped envelopes as if he were trying to cover his work from any prying eyes.

Alexander shifted Jefferson’s hands away from the envelopes, taking careful notice of the blade of grass pinched between the digits of the other man’s fingers. It would be wise to assume that John was currently not occupying Jefferson’s body, unless he had actually wanted to experience the sensations of a nap one last time. Delicately, Alexander plucked the blade of grass from Jefferson’s fingers, looking closely at it.

It was hunched over, weighed down by gravity and its loss of its roots, color already a sicky green and crisp around the edges. Like most living things, plucking it from its life source would only begin the slow cycle of death, unable to reverse the effects created by tearing it away from the earth. It was doomed to die, and Alexander could only stand and watch.

“It was foolish of me to take it from its home.” The soft voice of John said quietly from behind. “I took it away from what it loved most.”  

“John,” Alexander mumbled puzzled. “It’s only a blade of grass.”

John came closer to Alexander, faded eyes boring holes into Alexander’s soul. “Isn’t that what we are to the Sun… to God?” He explained solemnly. “A single blade of grass surrounded by thousands of others?”

“Why do you speak so hopelessly, John? So dead of life? You were never in this much despair before.”

“I am not sad Alexander, I’m just at an understanding of everything.”

Alexander frowned, crossing his arms. “Nonetheless, you mustn’t think in such manner. You are here, with me.”

A frown similar to Alexander’s worked its way onto John’s expression. “I cannot spend my whole existence by your side, Alexander.”

For much of his life John wished he could have. Wished he could see Alexander everyday at every hour, see him at his lowest and his highest. But while that was still possible in some respects, it was not in the way John had hoped for. Not as an apparition that followed his love around and was only seen by him. Not as a reflection in the air, intangible to the soft touch of Alexander.

He had Alexander, but he also didn’t.

What life was that?

The room filled with silence as they fell into a stare with each other; eyes both solemn and unspoken words left enclosed between the gap that separated them.

“I value your presence, Laurens,” Alexander final spoke. John knew he would speak first, he always did. “More than you may know.”

John nodded wordlessly.

“However, if you desire peace and quiet, I can leave you to your own devices until you desire otherwise.” He finished.

John nodded again, this time speaking up, “If you need me, I shall be with Philip.” He said, taking Alexander’s offer of peace.

He shuffled passed Alexander, shifting through the door and disappearing from his friend’s view.

One step closer, yet two steps back.

\----

It’s while John is watching over the precious life that is his son, that Alexander goes out. Each step with a purpose, a heart heavy with each moment forward.

He cannot understand Laurens. Refuses to accept the hopeless attitude that his once defiant dear friend had latched onto.

It is his inability to understand that leaves him pacing on the front steps of his home like a madman. As though staring at the thousands of blades of grass that John suddenly valued so dearly would bring light to something far from his own knowledge.

He wished the heavens would aid in lessening the pain, that the skies would open, and a star would guide him through the thick fog. But logically he knew that reality in all its glory and enlightening, would never be like the passages. There would never be a star to guide him, never an angel to enlighten him, but oh how he wished there wa-

“-Alexander?” A soft voice spoke in confusion and Alexander stopped. “Are you alright? You’re pacing in a circle.”

His eyes found their way to Peggy’s, heart skipping a beat; not in arousal, but in something else. Much like Laurens, she was rash at times and prone to explosions. Yet she was kind and listened well. They were two sides of the same coin, no doubt the reason they shared somewhat of a special connection. She was, after all, the lady Laurens fancied.

If there was anyone aside from himself that knew Laurens, it was Peggy.

“Alexander?” Peggy prompted again, genuinely worried. “Are you alright?”  

“No,” Alexander spoke, his head shaking slowly. “I do not believe I am.”

Taking Alexander’s hand, Peggy sat themselves down on the steps. She rubbed her soft fingers down Alexander’s hand soothingly, presence radiating love and concern.

“What has gotten you so overwhelmed?”

“Laurens,” He explained chokingly. “I… he spent time with you. Did he ever tell you his regrets, why he was who he was?”

At the mention of Laurens, Peggy’s eyes fall, finding solace in her shoes with a frown. “Truthfully we never spoke intimately together, we merely discussed a single layer of our lives.”

The frown followed Alexander and he thought back to the night in the garden with Angelica. After John had recounted to him Peggy and his night uptown in order to prove his existence to Angelica. Was there no romance between the two? What had they done uptown then?

“Did you not go with him uptown many years ago before the war?”

If Alexander was expecting surprise from Peggy, he did not receive it. She merely nodded to herself, eyes distant and sad.

“We had, but Laurens’ heart was never in it.”

“What do you mean?’

Peggy looked around uneasy, in what seemed like an internal quarrel of loyalty versus truth. “John may have seemed like a flirtatious, charming gentleman when surrounded by his friends, but that façade never was carried with myself or any other women. Our night together was to prove something, nothing more.”

“Prove something to his father?” The silence confirmed Alex’s prediction.

“He treated me as he would treat a mother or younger sister…. It was pleasant.” Peggy admitted, unable to hide her shy smile. However, she knows Alexander as she would know her sisters.

He wouldn’t settle for anything less then he desired. Just dig through every bit of detail and information available until he was satisfied with what he found; he was never satisfied. John had obviously kept things from his friends, as anybody would have. To break the lock, uncover what John had intended to keep arcane; that would be the invasion of a deceased man’s privacy- a dear friend’s privacy. Peggy understood that not everything needed to be known, unfortunately, Alex didn’t.   

“Everyone has their secrets, Alexander. Let Laurens’ die with him.” Peggy tried to reason desperately.

Alexander looked away, unable to meet her willing eyes.

“I truly am sorry,” He started. “But I cannot.”

Peggy nodded solemnly, getting up from the steps. “I love you as though you were my brother, Alexander. But I cannot bear to watch a dead man’s life unravel.”

Alexander doesn’t go after her. He understands that she does not want to carry that burden. He just watches as she opens the door and makes her way towards her older sister; carrying on with life to the best of her ability, unable to think about the past and what she has chosen to leave behind.

It is something Alexander cannot do.

He gets up, however, instead of walking back inside, he walks around his house into the little patch of garden Phillip loved to play in. The sweet peas were blooming, a light violet almost faded to white.

He stops in the middle of the garden, takes a deep breath and speaks up.

“John.”

The hair on his skin rises and the air drops ever so slightly.

“Yes, Alexander?” John’s faint voice says from in front of him.

“I wish for the truth.”

 “Are you sure?” John asked quietly, and Alexander nodded.

“More than anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I was on the Hamilton Amino posting art but not recently. I've been super busy so I've lacked on both the writing and drawing part. If you wanna check my art out, my name is Bishop :)


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